by Steve Bein
He didn’t get his wish. A twig snapped right behind Nene, much too close for comfort. It gave her guards such a start that the closest one whacked her robe with his scabbard as he spun around. She would wait until her business with the Bear Cub was finished before she dismissed him from her service. For the moment, she forced herself not to whirl around, but to turn slowly, as if she’d known the intruder was there all along.
Even over such a short distance, the shade of the surrounding trees thoroughly occluded the meager moonlight, so that Nene could only make out the Bear Cub’s silhouette. He had a tousled mop of a topknot, as if he’d just leaped off a galloping horse. She could tell he was armored, for there were lighter patches in his silhouette: the chest, the forearms, the thighs and shins. He wore large rectangular sode on his shoulders, and at this particular angle they made him appear to have wings like a tengu. Nene could see something in his left hand but she couldn’t make out what it was. Not a sword, surely; it looked more like a fistful of spindly, twisted sticks.
“You’re taller than I expected,” she said.
“I hear that a lot.”
“I asked you to meet me at moonrise. That was some time ago.”
“You’ll understand if I took precautions.”
She approached the Bear Cub in the small, shuffling steps allowed to her by her kimono. A patch of moonlight caught the black tuft of his topknot, but she still could not see his face. That made him dangerous; if she could not read his eyes, she had no way of knowing what was on his mind. “We have a common enemy,” she said. “I cannot kill him without raising my husband’s ire, but you can. I can give him to you.”
He backed deeper into the shadows. “Why should I trust you?”
“Because I am here. You are the most feared ronin in these lands, and I am a lady whom the emperor himself sometimes invites to tea. Why would I leave myself so vulnerable if I thought there could be no trust between us?”
“Vulnerable? Yes, you’d like me to believe that.”
With his left hand he tossed whatever he was holding at the feet of her nearest guardsman. Four short bows clattered against the flagstones. Their bowstrings were cut, dangling from the ends like so many fisherman’s lines.
The guard who hit her over-robe with his katana scabbard spun again, looking back at the shrine. Nene did not bother. There would be nothing to see. The Bear Cub was as skilled as the rumors said he was. He’d disabled all four men in that shrine, stripped them of their weapons, and probably left them for dead, all without anyone hearing a peep.
“You spoke of trust, yet you came with assassins,” he said.
“Bodyguards. Clever ones. There’s a difference.” She saw him incline his head as if to say, as you like. “But even if we call that a betrayal, let us say we are even. I brought archers; you eliminated them. Are you willing to call that a fair exchange?”
He thought about it for a moment, then nodded. Just then, serendipity gave her a glimpse of him. Even as a gust of wind parted a few branches, the clouds thinned just enough to cast a single fleeting moonbeam on the boy’s face. His dark black hair was totally incongruous with his eyes, which were careworn and brooding, even wrinkled at the corners… .
“Taller than I thought, and now older than I thought,” she said. “Much older. You’re not the Bear Cub.”
“That’s right,” a voice called out behind her. This time she did whirl around. Her guards drew steel. The pale, weatherworn door of the shrine slid aside, and out stepped a wisp of a boy dressed all in white. Even his armor was white, as if he intended to be buried in it—or, more forebodingly, as if he’d come to this meeting anticipating a funeral. He walked with a limp, just as the rumors said, and he carried the longest sword Nene had ever seen.
“Daigoro,” Nene said. “At last we meet.”
“We’ll meet on better terms if you tell your guards to sheathe their weapons.”
The captain of the guard came sprinting up the footpath, taken aback by the noise coming from the shrine. His armor plates clacked and clattered as he ran. “Hold,” Nene said. She approached the Bear Cub as quickly as she could—not very quick at all, given the constraints of her kimono. But walking toward him at any speed was signal enough that she felt the boy posed no threat to her. The captain stopped, dropping to his knees so abruptly that Nene feared he might shatter his kneecaps inside his armor. Seeing him kneel, all the men in his command did likewise.
The man behind her came out into the light. He was a hand taller than the Bear Cub, and much older, even older than Nene. His hair was the same color as hers, a uniformly deep and glossy black, from which Nene deduced that he used hair dye. Was that normal for him, or did he do it just this once, to masquerade ever so briefly as the boy? Judging by his woolly sideburns and shabby cloth, Nene assumed this man was Katsushima Goemon, a known associate of the Bear Cub. If that was right, then he showed uncommon loyalty for a ronin. By all accounts Katsushima cared nothing for his appearance. Dyeing his hair would be anathema to him. What must he have thought of dyeing it solely to complete an illusion that was only designed to last a few moments?
Katsushima circled around her to stand at Daigoro’s side. Both of them were careful never to come within sword’s reach of Nene, lest they spur her guards into action.
“I’m impressed,” she said. “You’ve proven most resourceful. And not just with your little ambush. In truth I was not at all sure my invitation would reach you.”
She hadn’t sent birds, riders, or criers. She couldn’t have. She didn’t know where to send them; the Bear Cub was constantly on the move. Besides, Shichio’s hunters combed the countryside in search of bear tracks. They would have intercepted any message she sent directly. The only option left to her was to put whispers in the right ears and hope that some of those ears belonged to friends of the Bear Cub—or at least friends of friends, or paid informants, or even enemies too weak to kill him but willing to gamble that this might be a trap. The boy showed remarkable foresight in establishing a net of spies. If Nene’s intelligence was correct, he’d only been ronin for a matter of weeks.
“You said you could give me Shichio. How?”
“I have already estranged him from my husband. I have given him everything he could ever ask for: land, lordship, even a samurai’s birthright. Most importantly, I have given him a home far from here and even farther from the Kansai. But none of that will sate him. He will stay away for as long as he can, but soon or late he will wheedle his way back to my husband’s side.”
“Let him. I know the truth of the Battle of Komaki. I have already sent missives to Hideyoshi—pardon me, to the regent, to General Toyotomi. Once he learns Shichio is responsible for his most public defeat—”
“I’ve intercepted your messages. All of them. My husband will hear nothing of them.”
That got a surprised blink out of the boy. “Why?”
“Because Shichio is a snake, and it is in a snake’s nature to wriggle out of tight spaces. He will find holes we cannot see.” And I have ends of my own, she thought; it gains me nothing to shame my husband. “Your abbot’s story is a deadly arrow to Shichio, but it is no mean feat to shoot a snake… . Have I said something to amuse you?”
The boy wiped the smile from his face. “No, my lady. It’s just that you remind me of … of my beloved.” That last word seemed carefully chosen. “May I speak candidly, my lady?”
“Please.”
He bowed. “Begging your pardon, Nene-dono, but I do not think you need my help to kill Shichio. Nor will I believe that you crossed half the empire on the chance that I would accept an audience with you.”
Nene granted him a nod and a little smile. “True.”
“Then if I may ask, my lady, why are you here?”
He has uncommon grace for a ronin, she thought. “Myths, some would say. In Kyoto, the nobility sometimes entertain themselves with ghost stories and the tall tales of farmers’ wives. I happen to believe that some of these fables contain a
kernel of truth. The legends of the Inazuma blades, for instance. Is it true that you carry Glorious Victory?”
“Glorious Victory Unsought.”
Nene was not accustomed to being corrected, but she chose to let it pass. “And is it true that the man who wields this blade cannot be defeated?”
“No, my lady.”
“Yet you bested fifty men in single combat.”
“It is not single combat with fifty on the opposing side,” said Katsushima.
The boy bowed, perhaps to conceal the hint of embarrassment in his face. Katsushima reacted quite differently; he swelled up like a rooster, filled with an almost fatherly pride. “Begging your pardon,” the Bear Cub said, “but the truth of the Battle of the Green Cliff was … well, rather complicated.”
“But you do not deny that Glorious Victory Unsought has uncanny power.”
“No, my lady.”
“What of the tanto known as Streaming Dawn? Do you know of it?”
That earned her a quizzical look. The boy exchanged a glance with Katsushima, too quick for Nene to read it. Did one of them carry Streaming Dawn? It was plain to see that in addition to their twin swords, both ronin wore curved knives in their belts. Could one of those have been the blade that promised eternal life?
Nene wanted to laugh at herself simply for having the thought. Ordinarily she was not one for such fantastic tales, but this case was different. She alone knew the lofty heights Hideyoshi’s dreams could reach. Her husband had risen from the lowliest sandal bearer to the mightiest daimyo the world had ever known. Soon he would bring every last corner of the empire under his rule, and already he had his eyes on the mainland. Joseon would be the first to fall. From there he would march on China, or so he said after sake put a fire in his belly. And why not? If Kublai Khan could conquer half the world, why should Hideyoshi aspire to anything less? After all, the only people to repel Kublai Khan were the Japanese. Even the mighty Mongols were no match for the samurai spirit.
The only limit to Hideyoshi’s ambition was time. He had accomplished more in his fifty-two years than any man alive, but he did not have another fifty-two years to complete his vision—not unless he had Streaming Dawn. The blade of eternal life was almost certainly a myth. Then again, so was the blade that guaranteed glory and victory. The Bear Cub was modest, but Nene could see the truth in Katsushima’s paternal pride. One crippled boy stood no chance against fifty men. He didn’t even stand a chance against General Mio, who was four times his size. Only the sword could explain his victories. If that one was real, then why not the other?
That furtive glance between Daigoro and Katsushima told her one thing: they knew of Streaming Dawn. They believed it existed. Whether they believed in its magic was of no consequence; that was up to Nene to prove. More important was for them to see that Nene believed in it. She needed them to see it as a worthy prize, one that Nene might buy with Shichio’s blood.
“If you want Shichio’s head, there are two paths you can take,” she said. “You already know a direct assault will not avail you. Your only other option is to parley. My husband is a consummate tactician; offer him something more valuable than Shichio and he will not be so foolish as to let lust or friendship spoil the exchange.”
“Why Streaming Dawn?”
It was impertinent for him to question his betters, but as she did with his earlier faux pas, Nene chose to let it pass. “When we married, an astrologer gave us a reading. She said that my husband would rule the world or die in the attempt. That was almost thirty years ago, but I have never forgotten it. Now my husband comes closer and closer to ruling the world—or to dying in the attempt. I would not see him fall before his time. If Streaming Dawn can prevent that, then I must have it.”
The boy spent a long, mute moment thinking about what she’d said. During his silence, Nene became acutely aware of the cold. It made her feel vulnerable. She had risked much in coming here, and now everything hung on this young boy’s next decision.
At last Daigoro said, “So who is it that wants the blade? You or your husband?”
Nene’s captain of the guard sprang to his feet. His hands moved to his katana, ready to draw. “Who are you to question the Lady in the North? Know your place, ronin.”
“It’s all right, Captain.” Nene said it calmly, though in truth her captain wasn’t wrong. It was not a samurai’s lot in life to question nobility. How different these eastern provinces are from Kyoto, Nene thought. Had the boy asked the same question at court—or any question, for that matter—he might well have been crucified for it. But this wasn’t Kyoto, and the wise swimmer aligned herself with the current. “Does it matter which one of us wants it?”
“I think it does, my lady.” Nene was glad to hear the contrition in Daigoro’s tone. “If your husband has forgotten your astrologer’s soothsaying, then he is not the one who wants Streaming Dawn. And if you’re the one who wants to exchange Shichio’s life for the blade, then it’s already in your power to deliver Shichio to me.”
“Is it now?” He was bold, that was certain. Nene could see what Hideyoshi liked about him, and also what Shichio hated about him.
“I believe so, my lady. If I am right, then … well, I must ask, Nene-dono: why have you not betrayed him to me already?”
Nene’s captain drew his katana halfway out of its sheath before Nene raised a staying hand. Bold and then some, she thought. Daigoro’s duty was to answer, not to inquire. “Is it so wrong for me to want payment in return? Or do you presume to tell me Shichio is a gift I should give you freely?”
“No, my lady. It’s just …” She could almost see him choosing his words, as if he had to paint each one in his mind before speaking it. “I had not thought of Shichio as a prize or a gift. He is vermin. The fly is not a gift for the whisk; the whisk is made to destroy the fly. So my question was not, why does my lady not offer me this gift, but rather, why does my lady tolerate the fly any longer than she must? I can be your whisk, Nene-dono. Please, do me the honor of using me to kill this pest.”
Much better, Nene thought. The poor boy had the wrong idea about his station, though. He was just another fly. Nene would trap them in the same jar. After that, it would be up to karma to decide which would die and which would escape the jar alive.
“I will do you that honor,” she said, “but I will not do it for nothing. I told you already: my husband is a consummate tactician. We can take his plaything away from him, but only by offering him something of greater value in exchange. Kill Shichio without his blessing and my husband’s wrath will be swift and terrible. Vermin he may be, but at the moment he is my husband’s favorite vermin.”
The Bear Cub did not like her answer, but he was wise enough to hold his tongue. “Find Streaming Dawn,” she said. “Give it to me and I will deliver Shichio to you.”
The boy nodded, deep in thought. At last he said, “May I ask one more question?”
He begins to learn his place, Nene thought. “You may.”
“Why me? My lady must have countless men at her disposal. Why not send one of them to find Streaming Dawn? For that matter, why not send them to kill Shichio?”
Her captain bristled, but Nene stayed him with a look. “You have met my husband,” she said. “He is fearsome when roused. Suffice it to say that there would be consequences if I were to deploy one of my own people against one of his. As for the blade, the simple truth is that you are expedient. My own agents have been unable to find this weapon; now I leave it to you to do better. But you must act quickly. Shichio is most vulnerable while he is here in the north. Once his plots and intrigues return him to my husband’s side, he will cling to him like a tick. I will not be able to pry him free a second time.”
Doubt played across the Bear Cub’s face like the clouds scudding over the moon. Nene wondered whether he meant to play her false, or whether his honor code denied him that possibility. Hideyoshi would assure her it was the latter; he had marveled aloud at this boy’s obsession with bushido.
Nene didn’t know Daigoro well enough to make her own judgment, but she knew her husband was an exceptional judge of character. For now she would assume the boy would not double-cross her.
“I will find the blade if I can,” Daigoro said at last, “and I will give it to you if I can.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” said Nene, though she did not fail to note the conditions he’d placed on his promise. Now that she thought about it, the fact that he’d phrased it so carefully made it all the more likely that he was being honest. If he meant to lie, he could have promised her anything in the world.
“How shall I send word to you once I have it?”
“My husband rules everything from Echigo in the north to Satsuma in the south. You’re a clever young man. You will find someone who can get through to me.”
“With all due respect to your husband, my lady, not all of his daimyo are true. How am I to know that the person I reach out to will not immediately reach out to Shichio?”
Nene chided him with a look. “Believe me, Shichio is not well loved among the generals.”
“They need not love him; they need only know of him. Shichio has placed quite a price on my head. Can you say all of them are immune to greed? Are all of them so well-heeled that Shichio’s gold cannot tempt them?”
“Hm.” That gave Nene pause. “There is something to what you say. So let us take another path. Prior to my husband, rule belonged to my friend Oda Nobunaga. His relations still hold power, and none of them is so destitute as to find Shichio’s bounty worth pursuing. Through them, you can reach me. Will that suit you?”
“Yes,” said the boy, though Nene had meant it as a rhetorical question. She did not much care what suited him. His boldness was wearing thin. But she had to admit he’d impressed her, and in any case she had few options left. None of her other spies had ever laid eyes on Streaming Dawn. If the blade existed, then Daigoro was the one to find it. If it did not, then she would find some other prize worthy of Shichio’s head.