Year of the Demon

by Steve Bein

  The second factor in Daigoro’s favor was no more than a gamble, about a man he’d met only once before. Daigoro studied Hideyoshi, trying to read his thoughts, but the regent’s apelike face revealed nothing.

  “Done,” Shichio said, distracting Daigoro from his attempt at reading Hideyoshi’s mind. “Jun! Fetch your writing tools.”

  A reedy young man appeared in an instant, a tiny table under one arm and a wooden box under the other. In no time at all he deployed his paper, ink block, inkstone, and brush. The reedy man wore neither topknot nor sword, so he was not military, but the fact that Shichio knew his name told Daigoro that he must have ranked highly among the servants. The thought of such a servant brought Tomo’s smiling face to mind. Daigoro wondered how deep the silt layer was on the bottom of the pond. Was it stable enough to support his weight? If so, he could reach Shichio in two steps and remove his head from his skinny peacock neck.

  No. Through force of will he pressed his palms into his lap so he would not draw his sword. “On behalf of the Okuma clan,” Daigoro said, and he proceeded to dictate the terms of the truce. The manservant quickly inscribed two copies.

  “There,” Shichio said after signing them and affixing his seal. “Give me the sword.”

  “I haven’t signed yet,” said Daigoro. “Nor will I, unless the lord regent and General Mio also sign.”

  Shichio’s face soured as if he were suddenly seasick. His dark eyes glared at the imposing form of General Mio. No doubt Shichio had been planning betrayal, but as soon as Mio signed the treaty, Daigoro knew his family was safe. Any treachery on Shichio’s part would now malign Mio as well, and Mio was born to the code. He took his honor seriously, and he was in a position to hold Shichio to his word.

  The regent’s signature was necessary too, for it was not enough for Daigoro to shield his family against Shichio’s troops. Shichio wielded a mysterious power over Hideyoshi, and though Daigoro could not explain it, his intuition insisted that it would not be hard for Shichio to orchestrate a Toyotomi attack on any target he chose. With his regal seal and a few brushstrokes, Hideyoshi himself rendered that possibility both illegal and—far more importantly—dishonorable.

  “Very well,” Shichio said impatiently, passing the little writing tablet to Hideyoshi, who, having signed, had the manservant pass it to Mio. “Does that satisfy you?” Shichio asked. “Would you like anyone else to sign? The emperor, perhaps? Or would you like to see if the gods are busy this afternoon?”

  “No,” Daigoro said, “this is quite enough, General.” He brushed the characters on each page, not Okuma Izu-no-kami Daigoro but simply Daigoro. It was the first time he’d ever signed that way.

  He handed Shichio a copy of the signed treaty along with a second scroll. He did not hand over Glorious Victory Unsought.

  “What is this?” Shichio snatched both documents from Daigoro like a dog stealing food from a table. Tossing aside the truce he’d just signed, he hunched over the second scroll and read it with a frown that deepened with every passing line.

  “Damn you, Okuma, what is the meaning of this?”

  “My name isn’t Okuma anymore,” Daigoro said. “I have formally relinquished both name and title.”

  “No,” Mio said, aghast. “Okuma-san, what have you done?”

  “I could not retain my father’s name and my father’s sword. General Shichio saw to that. As I am honor-bound to protect both, I can only keep his sword by relinquishing his name. And now, thanks to you three noble men, my family is protected too. I thank you all.”

  “Pah!” Shichio threw the scroll into the pond. Carp scattered away as if it were a pouncing cat, and the ink from it sent little black snakes swimming through the water. “What do I care what you call yourself? The Inazuma is mine.”

  “The Okumas’ Inazuma is yours,” said Daigoro. “I am no longer an Okuma.”

  Shichio rose to his feet. “A technicality! Give me your sword!”

  “If you care to wet your feet, General, you may yet be able to make out the date on that scroll. I delivered a copy to my family at the same time I signed this one—three days ago. The decree you’ve fed to your master’s carp takes precedence over the treaty you signed with me.”

  Shichio was fuming. General Mio gave a little snort. Hideyoshi laughed so hard he nearly fell off his bench.

  His laughter only angered Shichio further. His carefully preened hair released a few rogue strands to stray across his face, and when he pushed them away from his sweating forehead he knocked loose even more. “No!” he shrieked. “You signed the truce. Only an Okuma can sign for the Okumas!”

  “An Okuma,” Daigoro said, “or their duly appointed representative. You there—Jun, isn’t it?—read the first sentence of our treaty.”

  Already on his knees, the gaunt young man scrambled across the grass for the truce. “‘On behalf of the Okuma clan—’”

  “There,” said Daigoro, “do you see?”

  “Ha!” Hideyoshi’s laugh came with the force of a musket ball. “He’s got you there, Shichio. Clever, isn’t he?”

  “Very,” Mio said solemnly. “Daigoro-san, what have you done?”

  “He’s outfoxed the fox,” said Hideyoshi, still enjoying himself immensely. “Signing on behalf of his family instead of as one of them! I like this little bastard.”

  “He is insolent,” said Shichio, his voice warmer that it should have been—warm as a serpent’s, whispering in Hideyoshi’s ear. “You ought to reprimand him. He disrespects you.”

  “Maybe so,” said Hideyoshi, “but he sure is good for a laugh. Okuma-san—or Daigoro, or whatever the hell you’re calling yourself—I swear, if I had a thousand officers like you, I’d have conquered China by now.”

  Daigoro bowed deeply. The regent just shook his head and snickered. “I’d offer you room and board for the night, you and your bodyguard too, but even I couldn’t vouch for your safety. Shichio wouldn’t sleep until someone put a knife in you.”

  “A knife!” Katsushima said the word with disdain; it was a child’s toy, better suited for whittling than for a fight between grown men. “Let him go and fetch one. I’ll wait.”

  “Mind the laws of hospitality,” General Mio said in a warning tone. “If guests provoke a fight in another man’s home, the penalty for the instigator is death.”

  “I’m happy to pay the price,” said Katsushima. “If he wants to pretend at wearing a sword, let him draw it. If not, let him go and get his knife.”

  “Easy, now,” said Hideyoshi, suddenly as cold as an ice storm. “Don’t go spoiling things now that you’re ahead.”

  “My lord regent,” Daigoro said, “the treaty—”

  “Yes, yes, the treaty. Don’t worry, boy; it’s as good as my word—and I know you don’t think much of a peasant’s word, but trust me, I’ve no plans to wipe out your family. Hell, just keeping the treaty in force will be enough to entertain me for years. You have no idea what fits of madness I can expect to see from Shichio over this.”

  And just like that, Hideyoshi was warm and sunny again. Suddenly Daigoro understood why the man was so dangerous. With a hundred thousand troops at his back, a mind like his could tear down the world—and Hideyoshi could muster a million if he had a mind to.

  But capricious as he was, the regent was still a keen judge of character. Just as he’d said, Shichio was apoplectic. The peacock tried to speak, maybe even tried to scream, but his anger choked him. The sight of it made Hideyoshi snort and snigger.

  “I daresay it’s best for you to take your leave,” said General Mio. He eyed Shichio as if he were not a peacock but a rabid dog. “Sooner would be better than later.” Rising noisily to his feet, Mio led Daigoro and Katsushima out of the garden.

  37

  When they reached the stables, Mio said, “Do you have any idea what trouble you’ve caused?”

  “General, my most heartfelt apologies,” Daigoro said. “You must understand, I needed one who lives by the code to sign with him—”


  “Oh, I understand well enough. But I did not speak of the troubles you’ve caused for me—though you’ve released a flock of them, damn you. I was speaking of the troubles you’ve caused for yourself. You are no longer lord protector of Izu. You’ve no title to protect you anymore.”

  Daigoro nodded. The full weight of his decision had not yet settled on him, and now he wasn’t sure he could bear it once it fell. “What other choice was left to me?” he said.

  “None,” Mio said with a shrug. “But have no fear; I’ll keep an eye on Shichio for you. Even so, it is in his nature to look for a way out of the treaty. I cannot promise he won’t find one.”

  “He won’t. I thought it through.”

  Mio laughed his deep, booming laugh. “That you did. The regent wasn’t wrong, you know. With a thousand officers who think like you, we could conquer the world. It’s a shame you surrendered your troops when you surrendered your title.”

  “They’re safer without me at their head.”

  “And yet there’s not a one of them who wouldn’t die for you. You’re a good leader, son. They won’t forgive you easily for leaving them.”

  Daigoro swallowed. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “Few leaders do. But a commander can abandon his troops just as well as a soldier can abandon his post. They’ll be adrift for a while. Your family will be vulnerable.”

  “But Shichio—”

  “Yes. Shichio.” A frown soured Mio’s face. “He cannot touch your family. You’ve seen to that, and I will see to the rest. By this time tomorrow, all of the regent’s high command will know your family is untouchable. But have no doubt, Master Bear Cub: he will send people for you. Bounty hunters. Shinobi. You’d best be careful.”

  “You too.”

  “Me? He doesn’t have the balls to come after me. He never was one for bloodshed. No, our Shichio is no swordsman. He did all his generalship with an ink brush.”

  Daigoro nodded. “I’ll take your word for it. You know him better than I do.”

  “More’s the pity.”

  The three of them exchanged bows and farewells; then Daigoro and Katsushima mounted up and were on their way.

  Their horses trotted across the bridge into the light of the setting sun. Behind them the Jurakudai gleamed so brightly that they could see their own shadows cast before them. The noises and smells of the city returned: sweat and horse droppings, hawkers hawking and prostitutes cooing, sandalwood incense from a nearby temple, hoofbeats on cobblestone.

  The low angle of the sun cast deep shadows too, these ones pointing in the right direction, pooling behind every barrel and handcart. Daigoro thought of Mio and his warning about shinobi. As a child he’d always imagined black-clad ninja warriors hiding in the shadows, but now that he understood more about tactics, he knew it was better to hide in plain sight. Shichio’s shinobi would not come to Daigoro in black masks; they would come in the guise of an innkeep, a beggar, a farmhand. Daigoro looked down the street that stretched before him and could not tell if he saw a thousand people or five thousand. He had no acquaintance with people in such masses. He knew only that it was impossible to keep an eye on every one of them, and any one of them might be an assassin.

  “By the buddhas,” Daigoro said, “Katsushima, what are we going to do?”

  “You hadn’t given thought to that already?”

  Daigoro realized he hadn’t. He’d thought as far ahead as keeping his family safe and staying alive himself, to protect them if need be. He had no plan for getting back to Izu, nor any idea of where else to go or what he might do when he got there.

  He was glad his mother was tucked safely away in some corner of the Okuma compound. He was relieved to know Aki was safe too, though he could not imagine how he could ever earn her forgiveness. The news that he’d renounced his name would reach home before the week was out. He realized now that he’d given too little thought to how his mother and wife would take it. Would they see how much he’d sacrificed, or would they focus only on how he’d abandoned them? Would they understand that he’d saved their lives? Would Akiko think he’d fled as soon as he learned he was to become a father? They hadn’t known each other long; could she guess how sorely he longed to be with her, to meet his child?

  He wanted to book passage on the fastest ship bound north and east. He wanted to put his heels to his mare and ride all night. And he knew that Shichio would expect exactly this reaction. He would have people watching the ports, and every entrance to the city as well. Daigoro had already seen him place his own agents within Hideyoshi’s troops, and Hideyoshi’s troops patrolled every road in the Kansai.

  There would be covert threats too. Assassins would come. Daigoro did not doubt Mio’s word on that. For the time being, Daigoro had to be unpredictable. He had to vanish—for a while, he told himself. Until Shichio finds someone else to fixate on. Soon enough someone else will anger him, he thought. Soon he will find some other treasure he wants, maybe even another Inazuma blade. Glorious Victory is not the only one. Yes, Daigoro told himself, soon there would be someone else to hate, something else to need, and then Daigoro could go back and reclaim his rightful place at the head of his clan.

  He envisioned that day, riding past the kudzu-covered peaks of Izu on his triumphant return home. Then he remembered the abbot of Katto-ji, whose temple sat on one of those peaks—the abbot of Katto-ji, who remained the object of Shichio’s petty, vindictive spite even after all these years. Suddenly Daigoro’s dreams of returning home became nightmares.

  There was only one solution. Until he brought it to fruition, he had no choice but to remain hidden. But sooner or later, he would ride back home—right after testing Glorious Victory’s steel on Shichio’s throat.

  38

  “General Mio! I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you awake.”

  Shichio watched the fat man’s eyelids flutter. Mio tried to sit up, but only succeeded in causing the rope across his forehead to pull tighter. His skin went white where his skull pressed against the rough hempen rope, then flushed again when he relaxed.

  Shichio watched the arms next, which, with all the coils of rope digging into them, looked like stacked balls of mochi. The fat bulged up between the tight coils, and as Mio’s entire body was enrobed in a layer of fat, the bulges stood out everywhere, like massive worms lying in rows. The candles in their wall sconces cast a hundred dark valleys of shadow across Mio’s body, making the bonds seem tighter and the bulges seem larger. The biggest rolls stood up between the ropes across the belly; the smallest curved across the tops of the feet and the backs of the hands.

  The table he lay on was specially constructed for this purpose. It was vaguely human in shape, sloping downward at the head, its armlike protrusions pointing at the molding where the ceiling met the wall. Each hand was bound to the table with a single coil, making the back of the hand look like two puffy loaves of bread.

  The eyes rolled wide and white in Mio’s head. Shichio followed their gaze to the stout rafters, the white plaster between them, the elegant golden wood grain of the walls. “Ah,” Shichio said, “wondering where you are, neh? Shall I give you a hint? This is the least beautiful room of the Jurakudai—and I say that even considering Hashiba’s hideous taste in decorating.”

  Shichio gently ran his fingertips over Mio’s swollen right hand. “I must confess my ignorance,” he said. “I never knew a man could grow so large that his feet and hands were fat. But then I took another look at the rikishi painting that Hashiba commissioned from Kano Eitoku. Do you know Kano?”

  Mio strained against his bonds, causing his skin to go white in a hundred places. “Shichio?”

  “At your service.” Shichio smiled, causing the iron mask to push against his cheeks. “You’re slurring your words, General. Best to wait until the sleeping poison wears off, don’t you think?”

  Mio’s eyes rolled this way and that, reddening as he strained to turn his head. “What is this?”

  “I�
�ll be asking the questions tonight,” Shichio said, stuffing a wad of silk into Mio’s mouth. “Now, Kano: do you know his work? He’s quite the fashion in the Imperial Court. And do you know what? In Hashiba’s painting, the rikishi’s hands and feet are fat. Isn’t that something? It takes a Kano to devote that much attention to detail, neh? I swear to you, I never noticed it before tonight.”

  Mio managed to spit out the silk. “Have you stripped me naked? Damn you, untie me this instant!”

  Shichio would not be yelled at like a little boy. He whipped out his knife and sliced off one of the fat rolls on the back of Mio’s hand. The giant roared like a bull.

  “Oh, that is a shame,” Shichio said. “And to think all this time I’d planned on making the first cut with your sword.”

  The bright red wound on Mio’s hand looked like a mouth. The sight of it made Shichio want to retch, but the mask wanted him to take off another slice. Yet its power was not so complete that it overwhelmed his moral sensibilities. Once a man was tied down and helpless, even to threaten him was morally despicable. Shichio knew that in his bones. That was what made the samurai caste so tyrannical: the peasantry lived in fear of them, every hour of every day, with no hope of defense or reprisal. Shichio had lived his entire life in fear, until Hashiba showed him a higher path. If the Toyotomi flag flew over every last province and territory, if everyone bowed to one man, then there would be no more need for samurai. It was war that necessitated warriors, and it was the existence of the warrior caste—a caste with exclusive rights to arms and armor and vengeance—that made every commoner live in terror.

  And yet here he was, behaving like a samurai, exerting his might over a defenseless man.

  No. Not a defenseless man. A defenseless samurai. Mio deserved this. All of them did.

  “Let me show you the one I’d planned to be the first cut,” Shichio said. He walked away from the table, and from the bleeding, cursing, struggling giant. He took up Mio’s enormous katana, drew it, and tossed the scabbard aside. Mio strained against the ropes, furious. Shichio could not help but laugh. Only a born samurai could be bound to a table, naked and bleeding, and still be angry that someone had disrespected his scabbard.