“Your cause,” said Mio.
Daigoro’s whole body began to quiver. He’d come so close to death. In his mind he’d already willed his death, and now it would not come—or at least not by seppuku. If this trial-by-combat nonsense played itself through, he might still be killed, but in that case the abbot’s death would come next. Shichio had anticipated Daigoro’s suicide and the effect it would have on Hideyoshi’s mind. He’d anticipated it and nipped it in the bud. Once again Daigoro had been outfoxed by a peacock.
And yet Shichio had a point. The duel was first invented to settle questions of honor. The tradition of proving one’s word with the sword was as old as the sword itself. If Daigoro refused to duel, it would be tantamount to admitting disloyalty. If refusing to kill the abbot was truly the right course, Daigoro had no choice but to defend it with steel.
But how much blood had been shed needlessly in the name of honor? Daigoro had witnessed his share of duels, including the one that claimed his brother’s life. He’d seen men bloodied and maimed and killed, all in the name of a concept that he had always taken for granted, a concept that he’d never examined in any real depth until Hideyoshi called it into question.
And the duels Daigoro had seen were the best of their kind. How many duels ended in a mutual slaying? Half? More? Often as not, two experts would cut each other down. Two neophytes would do the same, out of sheer inexperience rather than skill. Survival itself was often a grim prospect; the samurai caste was full of men who had defended their honor at the cost of a limb. Daigoro had no taste for it.
Even so, a single word of protest would mark him as a traitor and a coward. There was only one path left to him.
• • •
“I will not risk one of my men over so trivial a cause,” the Okuma whelp said. “I will face your champion myself.”
“Trivial?”
Shichio surprised himself with the sharpness of his tone. Did the boy have no shame? There was nothing trivial about this at all. Shichio would have loved nothing more than to watch the boy eviscerate himself, but if that happened, then Hashiba would relent on the monk. From there, Mio’s curiosity would only grow, and perhaps the giant oaf would send men to ask questions. If Mio were ever to learn the truth, Hashiba would be the next to learn of it, and that would be the end of everything. No, this was far from trivial.
Even for the boy this was no trifling matter. The regent’s own fleet had stormed his lands and filled his home with troops. At any moment Hashiba could have him executed for sheer insolence. Perhaps Shichio should already have done so himself. His thoughts flitted momentarily to his demon mask, and to stabbing this boy through the neck. In his most imperious tone he said, “What part of the regent’s business is trivial to you?”
“The correct way to handle this matter is clear,” said the boy. “I have already placed a permanent garrison at the monastery at my expense. I have already suggested that killing the abbot would unsettle the region and bring bad karma upon the regent. The correct path is clear. All other paths are trivial.”
“Sir, I must agree,” said Mio, his voice deep and booming. He shifted his hulking, armored body to face Hashiba, making a point of ignoring Shichio completely. “Lord Okuma has your best interests at heart. I believe your best course is to forgive an old man for whatever sins he may once have committed. Please, Hideyoshi-dono, let this go.”
Shichio couldn’t decide which one he hated more, Mio Yasumasa or the Okuma brat. He was sure of one thing only: he could not allow Hashiba to dismiss the question of the abbot. Shameful acts of the past were like ghosts, growing ever hungrier as time went on. And Hashiba was not known for his forgiveness. Better to deal with a little peasant uprising in Izu than to risk waking the ghosts, and then see how Hashiba would respond to them.
“Give me a garrison here,” Shichio said. “Let me show these rubes what good it will do them if they protest the killing of a single backwater monk. Let me show them your power. Let this boy feel the swift stroke of Hideyoshi’s justice.”
“Justice will weigh in where it sees fit,” said Hashiba. “Lord Okuma, we will elect a champion for you to fight. General Mio, assemble the troops.”
Mio bowed as low as his enormous belly would let him. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I won’t. If the young Lord Okuma will not risk one of his own men for this, then neither will I. I will face him.”
Shichio glanced at the boy and wondered if that was a trace of fear in his eyes. Moments earlier Okuma had seemed wholly oblivious to death, speaking his mind as if Hashiba were no loftier than a common maidservant. But Mio was four times the boy’s size. He was the veteran of countless battles, and he’d never lost in single combat. The boy might just as well have challenged a tsunami to a sumo bout.
For a fleeting instant Shichio wondered whether Mio was trying to double-cross him. The fat man had agreed with Okuma all along; perhaps he meant to throw the fight. But then Shichio thought better of it. Guile and craft were not in Mio’s character. He barged through life like a boulder rolling downhill.
Then an even brighter thought alighted in Shichio’s mind: what if the fat man does betray me? He’s samurai, after all; it’s hardly beyond him to kill himself to prove a point. If Mio means to die on the boy’s sword, at least I’m free of him.
The boy’s sword. Shichio’s eyes had been drawn to it from the moment he stepped out of the palanquin. Apart from his demon mask, it was the finest piece of craftsmanship he’d ever seen. It was rumored to be an Inazuma blade—not an easy rumor to believe of some backwater bumpkin’s sword, but one look dismissed all doubts. This was truly a thing of beauty.
And the mask showed a stronger affinity for this sword than any other. He’d had no choice but to leave the mask in the palanquin, because for the first time he could hardly bear to touch it—or rather, touching it inspired a craving so powerful that Shichio actually feared he might lose control of his body. So long as he held the mask, he needed that sword. The thought of such a masterpiece being used in battle was anathema to him. What if it were nicked? What if it were stained with blood?
On the other hand, what if it gutted the fat man?
Shichio restrained a grin. Yes, he thought; if Okuma wins, Mio will be out of my life forever. All I’ll have to do is find another way to kill the monk. And if the duel goes the other way, I’m free of the Okuma brat and the monk is mine. No matter who loses this fight, victory belongs to me—as will that Inazuma sword, as soon as I can figure out how.
He watched on happily as the brat made one last plea for Hashiba to do the right thing. Then came the fat man’s pretensions of grandeur, which were enough to make Shichio giddy; since the boy was unarmored, Mio summoned attendants to remove his armor as well. For a lummox his size it was a three-man job. When they’d finished, Mio and Okuma took their positions in the courtyard, their shadows short and dark under the high noon sun. Mio drew his massive blade, and a tall, gray-haired, shabby-looking man presented Okuma with his sword.
Once again Shichio was struck by the beauty of it. The weapon was nearly as long as the boy was tall, and much too large for him to wield. Were it any other blade, it would have gleamed in the sun, but the Inazuma steel seemed to glow with its own glorious light. Shichio had never been so thankful not to have his mask. With it, he might well have run onto the battlefield to take the sword for his own.
Okuma’s steps had become short, shuffling movements under the weight of the sword, and for the first time Shichio noticed the brat must have injured his leg somehow. He limped off the right foot, and though Shichio was no master, he knew enough to understand that the right leg was all-important in swordsmanship. It was the root leg, the primary source of balance, power, and movement. And Okuma’s was lame.