“It’s nothing, sir.”
“Good night.”
“Good night, Okuma-dono.”
Daigoro watched as the potter’s boy took his leave, keeping close to the walls to avoid the heavy raindrops that still drummed against the outermost edge of the veranda. They hammered the clay tiles of the teahouse roof so steadily that it was difficult to hear anything else.
“So,” Katsushima said over the rain. “Today could have gone better.”
Daigoro chuckled, his spirits as dark and damp as the night. “Do you think so? I was hoping the rumor that my mother bested Samanosuke would spread like wildfire. Just think how everyone will fear the Okumas if their unarmed women can defeat swordsmen.”
Katsushima groaned. “What happened there? Why was she even out of her bedroom?”
“What does it matter? The damage is done.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I’ve dismissed all of her attendants, of course. At least her chamberlain had the good graces to spare me from making a proper example of him. He was a good man, and I shouldn’t have liked to execute him at all. He was sensible enough to retire to the orchard and throw himself off the cliff.”
“I wasn’t asking about the attendants.”
“Yes,” Daigoro said with a sigh. “My mother. Obviously she’ll be kept under watch until we can find more competent replacements.”
“No,” Katsushima said. Daigoro heard a distinctly chiding tone in his voice. “Your pressing problem is the Soras. And soon enough the Inoues. When do they come?”
Daigoro’s shoulders sank. “In less than a week. Not nearly enough time to patch things over with the Soras. And as bullies go, I’m told Lord Sora pales in comparison to Lord Inoue. I’ve spoiled everything, Katsushima. How did my father ever manage to keep these people in line?”
“You haven’t spoiled everything. The Soras did leave two of their famed yoroi as a gesture of goodwill.”
“That was none of my doing. They gave us those before we even sat down to tea. And I’m going to need a lot more than two breastplates if I’m to buy peace with the Inoues.”
Daigoro looked out at the raindrops spattering the faces of every puddle in the courtyard. “It looks like Izu is going to drown tonight, Katsushima, but the truth is this place is more like a field of dry grass. It only takes a spark to start a wildfire, and this damned rivalry between the Soras and Inoues is sending sparks flying everywhere.” Daigoro pounded his fist on the table—his good fist; the right still burned like hell. “I’ve botched everything I can botch. And because of today, tomorrow will be worse.”
“Patience,” said Katsushima.
8
Lord Inoue entered the Okuma compound on the back of an enormous white mare. He was a small man, scarcely taller than Daigoro, and compensated for it with a tall hat, voluminous robes, and daisho much shorter than average, as if someone might mistake him for being larger by mistaking his swords to be of normal length. To Daigoro’s mind he wore not clothing so much as a costume. He made quite an impressive entrance, but Daigoro wondered if he’d given forethought to what would come immediately after entering. His horse was far too long-legged for him, so the samurai of the Okuma honor guard had no choice but to find somewhere else to look as the lord lowered himself off his horse, at one point dangling with both feet off the ground.
“This is the fearsome Inoue Shigekazu?” Daigoro whispered under his breath.
Katsushima, standing beside him, sniffed. “This is the man he wants you to see. A feint, exactly the same as in fighting. Tread carefully.”
Daigoro nodded. “My mother is secure?”
“Tomo is watching her himself. Well, Tomo and a host of personal guards.”
Daigoro felt his gut go cold. It was one year to the day since they’d received word of his father’s death. He should have been comforting his mother, not locking her away like a common criminal. “Today will be especially hard for her,” he whispered. “She cannot be allowed to disturb the audience with Inoue, but see to it that she is not treated harshly.”
“I’ll round up that old healer of yours. Poppy’s tears should keep her quiet.”
Lord Inoue, having finally reached the ground, approached Daigoro with a bodyguard of eight samurai, all of them his sons. All were dressed in black and silver, and Inoue’s sideburns and thin mustache were also black traced through with silver. His darting eyes followed Katsushima, then flicked to Daigoro, then to the roof, the well, the shadows below the veranda. Daigoro had heard the man was paranoid, but the rumors hadn’t prepared him for this. He moved as if assassins lurked in every corner.
At last Lord Inoue reached the short staircase leading up to the broad, shady veranda that surrounded the main house. He gave Daigoro a deep and graceful bow. “Okuma-sama. I do hope your mother is feeling better.”
Daigoro willed his face to remain passive. How had Inoue heard of last week’s debacle with the Soras? His spy network was said to have eyes and ears everywhere, but Daigoro had taken steps to quarantine that information. He’d shut down the entire Okuma compound, allowing no one who had seen the duel with Sora Samanosuke to go beyond the gate. Surely the Soras had said nothing; not only did they stand to be hurt by the story, but they despised the Inoues. Who had talked?
“Mother is quite well,” Daigoro said, bowing back. His right hand accidentally brushed against the leg of his hakama, shooting spears of pain through his broken fingers. “I thank you for your concern. Come, shall we sit? You’ve been on the road a long time.”
They took their tea in a long tatami room overlooking the sea. The shoji were open, admitting a gentle breeze and the sedating smell of the camphor grove behind the compound. “Ahhh,” said Inoue, sipping his tea. “The sky is blue. The gulls are calling. What a beautiful day to talk about spies.”
Daigoro gave a polite laugh, glossing over his guest’s faux pas. “It seems we’ve finished with the preliminaries. Of course you’re right, Inoue-sama. My family would benefit from allying with your intelligence network.”
“As would everyone else. Even Toyotomi no Hideyoshi, the emperor’s new chief minister and regent, has been making inquiries. Tell me, Okuma-sama, what can you offer that even the likes of Toyotomi cannot?”
Daigoro knew what Inoue was after. The cagey old daimyo was one of the first on the islands to see the tactical merit of the southern barbarians’ muskets and matchlocks. Inoue’s musketry battalions might have been what first prompted Lord Sora to develop a breastplate capable of deflecting musket balls. And since Inoue was paranoid, he could not set aside the fear of assassination by musket. He simply had to have Sora yoroi, and not just for himself. He had countless sons, and high-ranking officers too. All of them needed protection. But Sora would not trade with him. So long as only Sora commanders were safe from gunfire, the Soras had an advantage to counterbalance Inoue’s firepower.
Lord Sora’s initial refusal to sell had swollen into open enmity, the kind that showered sparks all over the dry, grassy field that was Izu. Daigoro wanted to prevent a wildfire, and had he not failed with the Soras, he could have sold Sora armor to the Inoues. He could have forged a link between the two houses, protecting the Inoues while making the Soras rich. Everyone would win. But his mother had smashed it all to pieces. More importantly, Daigoro had failed to repair what she’d broken. He was sure his father would have found a solution, some answer Daigoro hadn’t been able to see himself.