“Watch your mouth or I’ll sew it shut,” said Genzai. “Do not take that tone with me again.”
There was an uneasy silence, broken at last by the old man with the wild white hair. “There is another consideration. We have achieved our ends, yes. With or without the girl, we can deliver the Inazuma to whomever we wish. But when that man falls, or when his ambitions no longer coincide with our own, we must place the sword in new hands.”
“What of it?” said Genzai.
“For that we may require the mask again. The other divers did not succeed with it. Can we say with certainty that we know why? Perhaps this cripple was the stronger swimmer, or perhaps her spirit has an accord with the mask, one we do not yet understand. This girl may be a tool for us, just as the sword and the mask are tools.”
“Then we will forge another tool. I will not be a wet nurse.”
“Masa spoke highly of her,” said Tadaaki, seeming to study her again with that empty pit that should have been an eye. “Sharp ears and a strong heart, that’s what he said.”
“He did,” said Genzai.
An image flashed in Kaida’s mind: Masa’s drowned body falling lifelessly to the sand. Then came another image: Masa falling to the sand in a fit of laughter. She’d felt embarrassment at the time, but now she understood that he hadn’t been mocking her; he’d merely been taken aback by her naïveté. If he was mocking anyone, it was Ama-machi.
Hearing he’d spoken up for her gave Kaida a little surge of pride. It also gave her hope. Masa had perceived Ama-machi’s true nature; he understood why it could never be Kaida’s home. His vote of confidence in her said she could find a home among these men. And Masa and Genzai had been good friends. Kaida was sure of it: she’d seen Genzai’s distress when Masa died. Genzai would take Masa’s word seriously. He just had to take Kaida in. She had no other prospects for survival.
“No,” Genzai said. “I cannot. I will not.” Kaida thought he meant to speak with finality, but she also thought she heard a hint of doubt in his deep, grating voice.
“Consider it this way,” Tadaaki said. “You may get lucky. Like as not she’ll die in the training.”
That got an appreciative nod out of Genzai. “What do you say to that, little girl? He has it right: you may not become one of us. You’re far more likely to become a corpse.”
“Better than dying in Ama-machi.”
“Is it?” He scratched behind his beard. “I suppose it may be at that.” Then he shook his head, as if snapping out of a bad dream. “No. You will find no place among us.”
“Then you lose nothing by taking me in,” Kaida said.
“We have no soft futon for you, only a dirt floor. We would sooner serve you shoe leather than fish. Do you think your sisters torment you? Our sensei are worse. Do you think it was difficult, diving for Glorious Victory Unsought? We will push you into the depths of hell. Do not underestimate the comforts of home.”
“A crippled girl is not at home anywhere. My mother is gone and my father has turned his back on me. My village is a prison and my house is a cage of predators. If a cold corner on your dirt floor is all the home you can offer me, it is still more than this crippled orphan can expect.”
“You may live to regret those words.”
“Then make me regret them. Take me with you.”
The two of them studied each other a long time. Kaida could not put her finger on what it was—a slight relaxing of the shoulders, perhaps, a hint of resignation in his breath—but she knew it the moment he changed his mind.
“You cannot kill me willfully,” Kaida said. “You must swear to do your best to train me. If I die anyway . . . well, that’s the fate I get.”
“We shall see soon enough. Welcome to the Wind.”
BOOK NINE
AZUCHI-MOMOYAMA PERIOD, THE YEAR 21
(1588 CE)
50
The brothel in Minakuchi was called the Bridge to the Other Shore and it was true to its name. The broad reception room was in fact a bridge: a narrow brook bisected its floor, burbling pleasantly and giving the building an unusually cool atmosphere. The brothel itself was unusually long and unusually narrow, extending from the road over the brook and deep into the bamboo grove flanking the road. The interior walls were reminiscent of a covered bridge in their construction, just substantial enough to contain the milder air within them.
After a long day of hot late summer riding, Daigoro knew he should have found the Bridge to the Other Shore refreshing. Instead, he felt no less embarrassed than the first time he’d entered a pleasure house. Evidently these things grew no easier with time.
Nevertheless, he knew Katsushima had advised him rightly: he could only afford to stay with those who would not betray his presence. He had even hoped to find Katsushima here, though that was all but hopeless. The brothels along the Tokaido were countless, Katsushima could have chosen any one of them, and none of them would disclose the fact that he was there. That was precisely why wanted ronin took their lodging in a house that knew the value of discretion.
As Katsushima did not happen to be dangling his feet in the brook, Daigoro had no way of knowing whether his friend was under the same roof. He saw only the girls, so delicate that they almost seemed weightless. One of them bowed as he entered and escorted him across the zigzagging slate bridge in the center of the room. “Welcome to the Other Shore,” she said.
Daigoro endured the standard conversational gymnastics, deflecting her flirtations and bandying about food and comfort as an indirect way of discussing the price of a room. Katsushima had always found the game exhilarating, but as Daigoro had no intention of laying claim to one of the girls in the end, he only found it tiresome. He was scarcely a day’s ride out of Kyoto, he’d already gone two days without sleeping, and there was yet more to do before bedding down tonight.
But his rooms were comfortable, the food was warm and filling, and the very walls were redolent with perfume and incense and spice. He almost nodded off while drinking his tea.
It was the sensation of slipping into sleep that caused him to snap back, wakeful and wary. He’d escaped the sprawling capital, but Minakuchi and the Other Shore were still in the heart of the Kansai, and visions of General Mio’s mutilated body left Daigoro feeling cold. He would not feel safe until he was well clear of Shichio’s hunting grounds.
He called for the madam and asked for a girl who was skilled in conversation. It was one of the geisha arts, and an expensive one at that. Daigoro wasn’t sure what he’d do when his money ran out—he’d never been paid to work in his entire life, and hadn’t the slightest idea of how to go about seeking employment—but he needed to gather information and he remembered Katsushima mentioning on their long ride from Izu that this was the best way to do that. Daigoro wished he had Katsushima with him now.
The girl’s name was Hanako and her kimono was of the palest blue silk, tastefully embroidered with parasols the color of cherry blossoms. She was tiny, not as pretty as Aki but shapely enough to make Daigoro remember how long he’d been away from home. They talked about trivia first, but only long enough for Daigoro to steer the conversation toward politics. “I hear the regent has been beset by something of a storm,” he said. “One of his chief advisers retired or was sent away, I’m told.”