Year of the Demon

by Steve Bein

“Yes, sir.”

  “So? Can you say for a fact that he didn’t get bored, figure out your suspects were dealing, and walk into that house looking to score?”

  “Well, no, not if you put it that way.”

  “Then I don’t have to suspend you. Yet.” Sakakibara turned to Mariko. “If you haven’t noticed, Sergeant, there’s a major case here for you to solve. We’ve got a bunch of crackpots in this city who want to commit mass murder. So go do your job and catch them. We’ll sort out the due process questions after you’re done. Frankly, I don’t give a shit if we don’t get a single conviction, so long as we prevent a string of homicides. And you,” he said, rounding on Han, “I’ll wait until after you’ve closed this case before I skin you alive.”

  BOOK SIX

  AZUCHI-MOMOYAMA PERIOD, THE YEAR 21

  (1588 CE)

  32

  Daigoro swung his bokken and missed. His target was too damned fast.

  “Try again,” said a smiling Tomo, and Daigoro tightened his grip on the haft. Tomo threw the next ball. Daigoro stepped up and snapped at it with his bokken. Another miss.

  “I don’t understand it,” he said. “You hit the damnable thing every time and you’ve never so much as picked up a sword.”

  “Sir, perhaps all your kenjutsu has been for naught,” Tomo said with a laugh. “At least when it comes to fighting little beanbags. Here, Okuma-sama, switch with me.”

  Daigoro handed him the bokken and went to retrieve the little cloth balls. They were filled with dried azuki beans and they were heavier than they appeared. Now they were dirty too, powdered with fine white dust after having been knocked up and down the gravel courtyard for half the morning. Daigoro took the requisite eight paces back and threw the first toss.

  Tomo hacked with a big, wide swing. Were it a sword fight, his opponent would have killed him three times over by the time his blow fell. But unlike Daigoro, Tomo actually hit what he aimed for. The little ball flew from the tip of the bokken as swift as an arrow, striking Daigoro squarely in the chest.

  “A thousand pardons,” Tomo said, but his boyish laughter betrayed his true feelings.

  Daigoro laughed too. “I swear to you, I might actually find some useful sword technique in this game if only I could get the hang of it. Here, let me try again.”

  “Not so fast. You owe me two more tosses, sir.”

  Tomo hit them both, one in the dirt at Daigoro’s feet, one into Daigoro’s breastbone with a loud smack. He giggled again and they traded weapons, or playthings, or whatever the proper name was for these frustrating contraptions. “What did you say this game was called?”

  “Cutting Swallows,” Tomo said. “I can’t believe you’ve never played before. Every boy in the village knows it.”

  Yes, but I’m not a villager, Daigoro thought. He did understand the swallow-cutting reference, though. Tsutsui Kosuke, a minor cousin of the Shimojo clan, was renowned for his draw. In addition to his blinding speed, he had a preternatural accuracy the likes of which no one had seen before or since. It was said he’d practiced as a boy by cutting down moths at twilight. By the time he came of age, rumors held that he could cut the wings off a swallow in midflight. That launched him into the firmament. He was a local hero for years, until Tsutsui squared off against Daigoro’s father in the Battle of Mikatagahara. Middle-aged men still sang a drinking song whose refrain ran “Bravely fought the Swallow Cutter, but the Red Bear of Izu was the Swallow Cutter cutter.” Even so, it was Tsutsui who had the children’s game named for him.

  Daigoro tried Tomo’s sloppy swinging method, and though he missed the first two balls he clipped the third. “Ha!”

  “Well done, sir! You’re getting the knack of it.”

  As Daigoro bent to pick up the little bean-filled swallows, he saw Akiko approaching along the shady veranda. “Aki-chan,” he called, “you’ve got to try this.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. . . .”

  “Come on, you don’t have to be a swordswoman to play—though I must say, anyone who could couple precision like this with proper form would be a dangerous opponent.”

  She stood in the shade with her hands folded over her belly. “It’s hot.”

  “So we’ll go down for a swim later. Have mercy on me, Aki. For once there isn’t a political crisis on my lap. Let’s have a bit of fun.”

  She unfolded her hands and clapped them back down on her belly. “I’d say you’ve had your share of fun already, lover.”

  It took a moment for her meaning to sink in. Daigoro looked at her hands, her belly, and then up to her face. Her smile seemed to be held in check, straining to hold back a flashflood of joy. “Do you mean it?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re . . . ?”

  The smile broadened. “Yes.”

  “Tomo!” Daigoro seized him by the shoulders. “I’m going to be a father!”

  Tomo giggled and Akiko joined in. Daigoro rushed over and lifted her off the veranda. Miraculously—or because all his sword training had toughened it, or maybe because sheer exhilaration infused it with strength—his lame leg held their weight. Even when he twirled her around, it did not buckle. “Easy, now,” she said, clutching his head to her chest, “easy on your baby’s bedroom.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.”

  He set her down but held her close. Somehow it had never occurred to him that with all the time they spent in bed she might get pregnant. Now he wondered which surprised him more, the fact that she was with child or the fact that he was happy about it. By all rights fatherhood should have been terrifying. He had a family to govern, a province to stabilize, and a mortal enemy whispering in the imperial regent’s ear. His life was a maelstrom, no place to bring a child, and yet he was so giddy his face was actually tingling.

  Katsushima came running around the corner of the house, sweat on his brow. As he drew near, Daigoro opened his arms wide. “Katsushima, have you heard? She’s with child!”

  “You’ve got visitors, Okuma-sama.”

  “Don’t sama me. I’m going to be a father!”

  “Yes. How nice. You’ve got visitors.”

  “Good, good, everything’s good. Show them in. We’ll pass the sake all around.”

  “They’re already in your courtyard. Armed.”

  Only then did Daigoro notice how stern Katsushima’s face was. His jaw muscles stood out in his cheeks, and a cold light seemed to glow in his eyes. Out of habit his thumb flicked his katana loose in its sheath, drawing it back in only to loosen it once more.

  “Armed? Who?”

  “Guess.”

  Daigoro nodded and picked up his own swords, which had been lying on the veranda while he was playing games. One day of peace, he thought. Is that too much to ask? And to think I’d been planning on swimming later.

  As he rounded the corner, Tomo and Katsushima in tow, he saw a horde of dusty, armored men sweating in the hot sun. They looked as though they’d endured many a forced march to come here. Daigoro put them at no less than half a hundred strong, all wearing twin swords and topknots. Every tenth man wore a tall red banner bearing the kiri flower of Toyotomi Hideyoshi. With the sunlight streaming through them, the banners cast a red glow on the faces of the men in their shadows.

  The company stood in formation just inside the front gate. It was not lost on Daigoro that he could not leave his own home except by going through them. Nor was it lost on him that there was only one reason why a guest would enter uninvited and armed. The laws of hospitality were clear. Even the most boorish of brutes knew to announce himself at the door if he did not want to be thought an enemy.

  “Patience and caution,” Katsushima said quietly. Hideyoshi’s company was still fifty paces offs, but he kept his voice low all the same. “We’re one wrong word away from a bloodbath.”

  “I know,” said Daigoro. He took a deep breath and shortened his strides. There was no blood on these men, so either they hadn’t killed his gate guards or there was a second company outside that
had done the fighting. Now that he thought on it, he was certain he’d have heard swordplay even if he was wrapped up in Cutting Swallows or rejoicing with Aki. So there had been no fighting. Whatever this was, the situation was not yet so bad that diplomacy was impossible.

  Yet.

  And he had a baby on the way. It was a fine day to fend off an invasion.

  “Commander,” he said, forcing as much cheer into his voice as possible, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  The company commander had thick eyebrows and a weak chin. His mouth wore a slight but permanent frown thanks to the chin, and between that and his eyebrows he had a perpetually scowling look. He pulled a roll of paper from a bamboo scroll case tethered to his sword belt, keeping his eyes on Daigoro the whole time. “His Eminence the lord regent Toyotomi no Hideyoshi presents you with an edict, sir.”

  Sir, Daigoro thought. That was good. This man held him in some esteem. He wasn’t thinking of Daigoro as a target—or at least not solely as a target. Then again, Daigoro supposed, if these were assassins, he would have known by now. They’d have started the killing already.

  He looked over the edict, which was not addressed to him or even to the daimyo of Izu, but rather to all of Japan. It was a new Sword Hunt, and in substance it was not much different than the one declared by Oda Nobunaga some years before. That one had been effective in disarming the peasantry, and like the last one, this one banned pole arms and firearms as well as swords. This one would no doubt be as effective as its predecessor; peasant revolts were much harder to stage if no one but samurai went armed. Hideyoshi’s own success was itself a peasant revolt, a fact he would not soon forget. Evidently he had no desire to be supplanted by some upstart with ambitions similar to his own.

  Like the last one, this Sword Hunt applied countrywide too, but this one also specified three mountains by name: Koya, Tonomine, and Soshitake. Though Daigoro had never seen either of them, he knew Mount Koya and Mount Tonomine by reputation. They were monastic havens far off in the Kansai; Koya lay not far from Sakai, and Tonomine was quite close to Nara. Strategically, economically, and politically, Sakai and Nara were nearly as important as Kyoto itself. If the neighboring monks kept arsenals, it was reasonable for the regent to see them as a threat.

  But Soshitake was nowhere near the Kansai. Daigoro’s own home sat on it. So did Katto-ji, home to the abbot who inspired such hate and fear in Hideyoshi’s peacock, Shichio.

  So that’s what this is about, he thought. A new Sword Hunt as a masquerade for attacking the abbot—and me too, I suppose. He read the rest quickly. Accompanying this hunt was an order for national census, a ban on relocating during the term of the census, an expulsion edict against the southern barbarians, and a promise to melt down all weapons seized in the Sword Hunt into bolts and nails for a massive statue of the Buddha. True to form, Hideyoshi was nothing if not grandiose. But Daigoro saw an easy escape from this extravagant trap.

  “Commander,” he said, “I’m sure you’ve noticed that my home sits on Soshitake. But the regent’s Sword Hunt is a ban on peasants owning weapons. You’ll find no armed peasants in this house.”

  “My orders were most specific, sir.” The commander’s tone was stiff without being gruff. Daigoro sensed some hesitation in him. “Most specific. We are to disarm all residents on Soshitake.”

  Daigoro forced a smile and did his best to include some warmth in it. “Surely the regent can’t have ordered you to disarm samurai. A samurai without his swords is no samurai at all.”

  “Understood, sir. But the edict stands.”

  “Of course it does. Come, won’t you sit down? You and your men have marched a long way. And I’ve learned just this morning that I’m to be a father. Let us open a few casks of sake for your men and we officers can sit in the shade for a while.”

  “No, sir. My orders were most specific. Most specific. We’re to move from here to the next compound as quickly as may be, sir.”

  The next compound. So they hadn’t been to Katto-ji yet; they’d marched right past it to come here. And there wasn’t a second company deployed there either; this one was tasked with disarming both compounds. What was Hideyoshi thinking? Or, closer to it, what was Shichio thinking? Daigoro had no doubt it was Shichio whose orders were “most specific.” The man had an ax to grind, plain and simple. But his motivation wasn’t yet clear. These men could easily have overwhelmed the tiny garrison Daigoro had stationed at Katto-ji. They could have been marching back home with the abbot’s head in a sack before Daigoro could ever have marshaled his troops to stop them.

  Shichio couldn’t possibly expect Daigoro and all his men to simply hand over their weapons. Better to ask them all to commit suicide; at least there would be some honor in that. So, Daigoro wondered, if he was never really after our swords, what did he want?

  Only two answers were possible. One: he hoped Daigoro would resist. He hadn’t sent enough men to overwhelm House Okuma. In fact, Daigoro had no doubt that his own commanders had already reached the same conclusion, and deployed their troops in every room facing the courtyard. Daigoro had only to give the order and scores of samurai would burst out from every building. The company arrayed before him would be dead in minutes—taking some of Daigoro’s own men with them, to be sure, but if Shichio’s goal was Toyotomi blood on Okuma blades, he had certainly set the stage for it. And if Daigoro’s current predicament degenerated into combat, Shichio could convince Hideyoshi to wage war on the Okumas.

  Two: he wanted not the Okumas’ swords but Daigoro’s sword. A sudden vision flashed in Daigoro’s mind: Shichio’s demonic mask, its angry scowl cut with deep shadows in the moonlight, and Daigoro’s own shadow running parallel to Shichio’s across the snow-white stones of the Okuma family courtyard. Then came another vision: his brother facedown in the snow, slain in a duel after claiming Glorious Victory for his own. It was Ichiro’s unrelenting desire for the sword that had killed him. Shichio felt the same hunger. He believed it was his sinister mask that made him need the blade; Daigoro thought otherwise, but he supposed the truth didn’t matter. One way or the other, that haughty peacock was willing to destroy House Okuma to acquire Glorious Victory, and Daigoro wasn’t sure how much more punishment his family could take.

  Yet there he was with fifty hostile samurai in his own home. They were all trained killers, and no doubt they’d all seen more combat than Daigoro’s own men. These warriors had come up from the west country, where the fighting was hardest. Yes, the Okumas outnumbered these men, and yes, the Okumas would carry the day, but not without bitter losses.

  But Daigoro could not give up his sword—the sword his father had bequeathed to him as his last act in life—and he certainly couldn’t disarm his entire clan. He read the edict once more.

  “See here,” he told Hideyoshi’s commander, “your orders are to disarm the residents of Soshi-take, not Soshi-san. San means mountain, as in Koya-san. Take means peak. And Mount Soshi has two peaks. You just came up the saddle between them. Katto-ji, that monastery you passed on the way here, sits on Zensoshi-take. My home is on Gososhi-take. So which of the two Soshitakes are you to disarm?”

  “My orders were most specific,” the commander said, but now doubt crept into his voice.

  “Not specific enough, I’m afraid.” Daigoro motioned toward his sitting room. “Come, let’s have a seat and I’ll have Tomo here fetch us a map. Your men look weary; let’s give them a bit of a rest, shall we?”

  As soon as Daigoro saw the commander’s shoulders relax, he knew he’d won. He’d given the man a way to keep his honor, fulfill his orders to the letter, and not disgrace a samurai family by asking them to give up the unthinkable. In short, he’d given the commander a way out. The man wasn’t stupid, and clearly he was uncomfortable with the orders foisted upon him. Did he know of Shichio’s madness? If Daigoro had noticed it, surely an officer under Shichio’s command must have seen it. The commander’s permanent frown had not left his face, but up until a few seco
nds ago he’d been visibly on edge. Daigoro felt his own muscles loosen too, and a cool wave of relief washed over him. “Tomo,” he said, “send a few girls for sake, and then bring my chest of maps.”

  Then a Toyotomi soldier drew his katana and leveled it at Tomo’s throat. “This boy isn’t going to fetch any maps,” the swordsman said. “He’s not going anywhere.”

  33

  “Sir, we have our orders,” the soldier said, the tip of his sword a handsbreadth from Tomo’s jugular. “We’re to disarm this house.”

  Armor clattered like a thousand metal birds taking flight. All the Toyotomi samurai sprang to the ready. None drew swords, but all were tensed, crouching, ready to attack. Their commander rounded on Tomo’s captor, furious. “You’ll sheathe your weapon this instant,” he said. “Stand down or I’ll have your head.”

  “No, sir,” said the samurai. He had a lean, quick, runner’s body and a face like a mouse. He was just out of striking range; if the commander drew on him, Tomo would die.

  Daigoro’s feeling of relief evaporated instantly. He studied Tomo’s face, which had gone utterly white. He studied the commander and the rest of his troops, their hands on their hilts, knees bent to pounce. No eyes were on Daigoro.

  Tomo and his captor were out of reach for the commander, but not for Glorious Victory. “Patience,” Katsushima whispered.

  Had he read Daigoro’s mind? Glorious Victory was long and heavy, very slow on the draw. But with no eyes on him yet, he might be able to draw and cut and save Tomo’s life. Maybe.

  It was bad enough to draw a weapon in another man’s home. That by itself violated every convention of civility and honor, and Daigoro was well within his rights to kill this boor. But worse yet, the man had threatened one of his own. Daigoro could not let that stand.

  Then again, neither could Hideyoshi’s commander. Tomo’s captor had disobeyed a direct order. Under no circumstances would he leave the courtyard alive. His commander would strike him down, and all Daigoro had to do was watch him kill Tomo.