by Steve Bein
“She is my mother.”
“This has nothing to do with your mother. It’s to do with your refusal to make hard decisions.”
“I drew my blade against the most powerful man in the empire today, and I did it just to save a peasant boy that any other daimyo would sacrifice as easily as he’d part with a piss pot. You tell me that wasn’t a hard decision.”
“You did it because you were afraid of losing your friend. That’s not hard; it’s not even noble. Any common thief would have done the same.”
Daigoro wanted to punch him. He wanted to jump out of the water, grab Glorious Victory, and call him out then and there. And it wasn’t because Katsushima had compared him to a thief; it was because he wasn’t sure Katsushima was wrong.
Until now Daigoro thought of himself as noble for risking his life to save a lowborn servant like Tomo. Now he had his doubts. Katsushima had spoken the truth: even bandits would murder to save their friends. Was defending Tomo a selfless act or a selfish one? Hindsight was never perfect; how could he know for certain?
The fact that he couldn’t be sure of his own motivations made Daigoro even angrier. He slammed his fist down like a hammer on the rim of the pool. The black lava rock was sharp enough to cut the fleshy part of his hand, but Daigoro didn’t care. “Damn it, Katsushima, what need was there for him to die? And why does she have to be pregnant? And why can none of this be easy? Just for one day, why can it not be easy?”
Katsushima rose from the bath. “You’ve never understood me. My choices. How I could stomach the thought of going ronin. I think you’ve just gotten your first glimpse.”
Daigoro dropped his bleeding hand back into the water. As it plopped through the surface it made a little wave—a fleeting phenomenon, a manifestation so ephemeral that it could hardly be said to have happened. It made Daigoro think of the word ronin, “wave man.” A samurai without his liege lord was said to be as free as a wave on the ocean, owing nothing to anyone, dependent on no one. But Daigoro’s classical education had something very different to say about waves.
He remembered discussing the Tao Te Ching with his father when he was very young. He’d been confused by the idea that the wave and the ocean were just two faces of one thing, so his father had taken him down to the beach. “Tell me where the ocean ends and the wave begins,” his father had said. “Which drops belong to the wave but not to the ocean?”
It was impossible to answer, of course. There were no oceanless waves, nor were there waveless oceans. And if no boundary could be found between those two, how could there be a boundary between the wave named Daigoro and the ocean called House Okuma? How could Daigoro be himself without being an Okuma? Son of Tetsuro and Yumiko. Brother to Ichiro, husband to Akiko, father to the next little wave on the Okuma sea. There was no Daigoro except Okuma Daigoro.
Was a ronin any less dependent? If so, then why had Katsushima stood back-to-back with him, with fifty swords pointed at their throats? Wouldn’t he have expressed true independence by simply standing back and observing?
Katsushima began the long, moonlit walk back to the compound, and Daigoro punched the surface of the water again. He almost wished he’d gone through with his attempted seppuku. There was no point in doing it now—as an act of protest, it had to be done in full view of the regent—but if his courage hadn’t failed him then, he could have solved his two greatest problems: how to protect his family and how to fulfill his father’s dying wish. By committing the ultimate sacrifice, he would have convinced the regent of the abbot’s innocence. In addition, once Daigoro was dead there would be no disgrace in parting with Glorious Victory Unsought. His father had bequeathed her to Daigoro, and Daigoro would have kept her until the end. If Shichio wanted her after his death, so be it. If he still wanted to kill the abbot, so be it. No one could say Daigoro hadn’t done his utmost to fulfill his duty.
A chill ran over his body, in spite of the heat of the bath. It came not on the midnight breeze, but with the realization that seppuku was still an option. He had only to ride to Kyoto. Hideyoshi had a palace there. Daigoro could request an audience, carry out his ritual disembowelment, and see his family protected once and for all. Better yet, perhaps he could find a way to make a bid for Shichio’s neck. Suicide was far more honorable than execution, but Daigoro would gladly suffer the shame of a death sentence if he earned it by driving Glorious Victory through Shichio’s heart.
Either way, he had no choice but to ride to Kyoto. The road would be long and hot, and he knew death awaited him at the end. It was inevitable. So long as Okuma Daigoro lived, all of the Okumas would be under threat.
So unless he could conjure some third option before he reached Hideyoshi’s palace, his fate would be to commit seppuku or to be executed for the murder of one of the regent’s top aides. He hoped Katsushima would still be willing to ride with him. If it came to seppuku, Daigoro would need a second, and if it were execution, he would need someone to deliver his head to his family.
Whatever the outcome, he hoped Katsushima would acknowledge his willingness to make the difficult choice.
35
Daigoro had been as far as Hakone before, the last time to disastrous results: Ichiro was killed—brutally, predictably, needlessly—right before his eyes. That had been in the winter, when Hakone was cloaked in heavy snow and there was little of the town to see. The north road had been nothing more than a thin track of mud and slush, but now, in the height of summer, Daigoro found it had become an entirely different entity.
It seemed Hideyoshi’s military exploits had been good for business; the dusty streets around the Mishima checkpoint were bustling with activity. Horse trains and baggage carriers marched in their lines; hawkers proclaimed the virtues of their products while farmers and peddlers sold their wares more quietly; palanquin bearers jogged here and there, slithering between packhorses and jugglers and white-faced geisha.
“There’s a good brothel just up here,” Katsushima said as they reached the heart of town. “It’ll be a good place to bed down for the night.”
“No,” said Daigoro.
“Why not?”
“I have no interest in those women.”
“So ask them to bring you a boy.”
“No!”
Katsushima gave him a quizzical frown. “I did not think you to be a prude in such matters. Perhaps it’s your . . . well, your upbringing in the hinterlands, if you’ll pardon my saying so. Among city folk there is no shame in saying boys and girls both have their uses in a pleasure house.”
“You misunderstand me.” Daigoro reined his mare in closer so he didn’t have to speak up. “Have you no eyes? I’m a cripple.”
“What of it? You got Akiko pregnant, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So your cock works.”
“Yes.”
“All right, then. Which will it be: a boy or a girl?”
Daigoro kept himself from blushing, from rolling his eyes, from giving Katsushima a good backhand. “Do you still not see? My leg is unsightly. I don’t care to disrobe in the company of others.”
“If it’s a woman with discretion you’re concerned about, believe me, there’s no need to worry—”
“No,” Daigoro said with finality. “I have no taste for consorts. My Akiko is more than enough for me.”
“Spoken like a true newlywed.” Katsushima sighed, sincerely heartbroken. “Very well, then. As you like. I must tell you, though, my chances of finding a sporting woman fall dramatically once we pass beyond city limits. And one of these nights we’ll have to stay at a brothel, even if you only want to pay to sleep there.”
“Why?”
“Are you joking? They’re the traveling man’s greatest asset! Where else can you gather reliable information about the road? Pubs? Inns? No one there is paid to give you small talk.”
Daigoro hadn’t thought of it that way. And Katsushima wasn’t through. “Never forget the value of a whore’s discretion, Daigoro. It’s their
livelihood. A good madam will never reveal who stays under her roof. If you’re a hunted man, there’s no better refuge than a high-class whorehouse.”
“Spoken like a hunted man,” said Daigoro.
Katsushima shrugged. “It’s a ronin’s lot. But even those who never run afoul of the law can still acquire enemies—a fact you of all people ought not to forget.”
Daigoro shifted the shoulder straps of his Sora yoroi, which he’d worn ever since leaving the Okuma compound. His father had died at the hands of a paid assassin, and a breastplate like this one might have saved his life. Now that he thought about it, Ichiro had died on the road too. Was that to be Daigoro’s fate as well? Did Okuma men live under a curse?
“All right,” he said with a resigned sigh. “We visit your brothels. But not every night. And not tonight.”
• • •
The next nine days held sights Daigoro had never seen before. Mount Fuji peeking out from its ever-present cloak of clouds. Huge square fields of white along the coast, dotted with salt farmers collecting their crop. A thousand fishing boats on a single beach, arrayed before the sunset like troops standing for inspection. Mountains so sheer and so variegated that they looked like they could exist only in woodblock prints. Rivers wider than any in Izu. Lanterns bobbing on the water like foxfires, suspended from the bowsprits of cormorant boats. Bridges as steeply arched as rainbows; bridges with tollhouses and armed guards; missing bridges whose absence was only told by the line of spindly trestles crossing the water.
He passed rice farmers clutching their broad sugegasa to their heads in a driving rainstorm. He saw towering temples boxed in by tall bamboo frames, with workers clambering about the frames like monkeys as they replaced roof tiles and patched crumbling walls. He watched the wind batter gnarled pine trees, the trees themselves already permanently bowed over like old crones. He rode under tall orange torii, under pines and maples and bamboo and ginkgo, under fog so dense that he could not even see Katsushima beside him. He crossed paths with armed companies from a dozen major houses and was thankful that none of them stopped him, lest one of them have an alliance with Shichio.
At the Arai checkpoint they tethered their horses on a ferry and sailed across the placid waters of Lake Hamana. Once again Daigoro gave thought to the Sora breastplate he’d worn ever since leaving the Okuma compound. It was heavy, and with his mare’s every step its weight had plowed furrows into his flesh, each sore the exact width of a shoulder strap. He did his best not to scratch at them by night in the hopes that the skin would callus, but now the breastplate posed an entirely different threat. What if the ferry should capsize? Daigoro knew how to swim—he’d grown up in Izu, after all—but in the water his breastplate was not armor but an anchor.
But the ferry did not keel over, and once he was on dry land again he found nagging fears still plagued him. When they rode before dawn or after dusk, he imagined how he might fall if his beautiful chestnut mare should falter and break a leg. By night he had horrible dreams of waking to find someone had stolen their horses, or even just their tack and harness. Daigoro’s saddle was one of a kind. Old Yagyu, the Okumas’ healer, had designed it to brace Daigoro’s right leg so he could ride. This was the largest of the saddles, but Daigoro still owned the smallest and all those in between, racked on a shelf in the stable. They charted Daigoro’s growth over the years, as well as Old Yagyu’s growing understanding of Daigoro’s affliction. Apart from his sword, Daigoro’s saddle was the most precious thing in the world. He could not ride without it, and he did not know what he would do if it were stolen.
At length he could contain himself no more, and at the inn in Okazaki he finally asked Katsushima about his fears. “It’s natural,” Katsushima said through a mouthful of grilled squid. “It’s nothing to do with horses and armor. You fear what happens once we get to Kyoto.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so. You talk about it in your sleep.”
Daigoro frowned. “I don’t talk in my sleep.”
“Oh no? Then how do I know about your plans to become a monk?”
Daigoro’s frown deepened. “What?”
“It took me a few nights to put it together. The greatest threat to House Okuma isn’t Shichio. It’s you, neh? If there were no Okuma Daigoro, there would be no vendetta. If you take on the tonsure, you give up your name and all your worldly possessions. Glorious Victory could go to Shichio. Any duty you ever felt to protect that abbot would be lifted. You could even stay in Katto-ji and watch your child grow up, if only from afar. I congratulate you. It’s an elegant solution.”
Daigoro looked at him in shock. “I said that in my sleep?”
“Not just like that, no. I told you, it took me a few nights to sort it all out.” He chuckled when he saw Daigoro’s jaw drop. “You don’t like it? Just think: if we’d slept in brothels every night, we’d never have shared a room, and then I’d never hear you talk in your sleep.”
Daigoro rolled his eyes. “I wonder if Akiko hears me talking too.”
“Ask her when we get back. Do tell me you’ve put this seppuku nonsense out of your mind. In your heart you know it’s not the right way.”
Or else I wouldn’t be fretting about it in my sleep, Daigoro thought. But there would be no returning home. Even if Daigoro survived Kyoto, the Okuma compound could never be home to him again. He would have abandoned his name and his birthright—and not in the way Katsushima thought, either. Obviously he’d gathered all the clues he needed, but he’d reached the wrong conclusion.
“You’re very clever,” Daigoro said, “but not as clever as you think. I’ve no intention of becoming a monk.”
“Oh no?”
“Have you forgotten? The Buddha may say you erase your past karma when you take on the cloth, but Shichio doesn’t forgive so easily. If he did, he’d have no cause to kill the abbot, and you and I would still be in Izu.”
Katsushima nodded sagely, conceding the point. “Are you going to eat that?”
Daigoro looked down at his dinner, which he’d scarcely touched. “I suppose not.”
Katsushima’s chopsticks snatched a nicely grilled tentacle and a slice of pickled daikon. “There is another way, you know. We’re only a few days’ ride from the Kansai. That’s shinobi country.”
“Are you serious? Magic men?”
“It’s not magic. They don’t pass through walls; they climb over them, or slip through windows. But they do it so invisibly that people start spinning tall tales. They tell stories of masked men dressed head to toe in black, but only because they do not want to believe that death may hide in plain sight.”
“What are you getting at, Goemon?”
“Shichio cannot stay on his guard against every cook and steward and scribe that crosses his path. A good shinobi can become any one of them. Put a few coins in the right hand and we can ride home tomorrow.”
He was right. Daigoro knew it. Given the choice of committing seppuku, facing execution for Shichio’s murder, or placing a hired knife in Shichio’s bedchamber, the easiest road was clear. All Daigoro had to do was compromise his honor and he could ride back home to his wife.
But the easy path was not the path of bushido. “No,” he said. “I cannot pay some unknown mercenary to fight my battles for me. My father would never have done such a thing.”
“Your father died at the hands of ‘some unknown mercenary.’”
Katsushima waited to see whether that hit a sore spot. A pang of grief stabbed Daigoro in the heart, but he did not allow it to show in his face. “The Iga are renowned for their spies and assassins,” Katsushima said. “The greatest houses of Kyoto employ them all the time.”
“All the more reason not to hire them. If a man is willing to sell his sword, what keeps him from selling his secrets?”
“The Wind, then. Have you heard of them?”
“No.”
“Then they’ve done their job well. They make clans like the Iga and the Rokkaku look like amateur
s. I used to know people who can find them; we can find them again.”
Daigoro looked down at his rice. The cooks he’d grown up with cooked it better. All he had to do was ride north instead of south and he could have that rice again, in a familiar bowl, under a friendly roof. It was true that to hire an assassin was to abandon his father’s path. But if he strayed from the path just this once, just for a little while, he could keep his father’s name. Protect his father’s house. Raise his father’s grandchild and heir.
And be unworthy of that heritage himself.
“I cannot do it,” he said. “What if my shinobi should fail? Then I’ll have sullied my honor for nothing.”
“It always comes back to that, doesn’t it?” Katsushima stole another piece of octopus from his bowl. “You know I’m proud of you, neh?”
That made Daigoro look up. It was the sort of thing a father would say, and as such, it was the sort of thing Daigoro hadn’t heard in a long time. “Why?” he said. “You thought this was a bad idea from the outset.”
“All the more reason to admire you. You stood up to me—and not just to me. To Hideyoshi, to that idiot Shichio, to the whipping boy he sent to your house, even to that abbot of yours. You haven’t taken so much as a single step from your original position. If I could make your kenjutsu stance as firm as you keep your moral stance, you’d be a fearsome swordsman.”
Daigoro thanked him, but only halfheartedly. He knew he would never be father’s equal in swordsmanship. That much had been fated in the womb, where some curse had emaciated his right leg before he was even born. If he could not match his father’s stature as a warrior, at least he could have done it as a statesman, but he’d botched that too. The only way left to him was to hold fast to his father’s moral principles, but he could not deny that Katsushima had it right from the first: killing the abbot would have spared Daigoro and his family no end of trouble.