There were fathers who raised their sons to think such recklessness was exactly what bushido required of them. They said anything less was cowardice. But Okuma Tetsuro had raised his sons differently. He taught them to think strategically, to avoid combat whenever possible, so that when they drew blood the world would know it was necessary and right. Above all, he’d taught his sons to be of good use to their clan. Daigoro knew he could serve his clan best by gaining an audience with Lord Yasuda Jinbei. He just couldn’t see how to make that happen.
“Maybe we can get Lord Yasuda to come outside,” he whispered.
“You said he is ill,” said his shinobi. “Bedridden.”
And has been for most of this year, Daigoro thought. Truth to tell, he couldn’t even be sure his old ally was still alive. No one would have sent word to him if Lord Yasuda had passed on. Daigoro had no standing now, no face, no family. He didn’t even have a home where he could receive the news.
Daigoro set his jaw and steeled his mind. He was still samurai at heart, even if he’d given up any such claims in the eyes of the world. Speculating about worst-case scenarios was unbecoming of him. “To hell with it,” he said. “I’m going in there.”
“Better,” said the shinobi. “At last you see clearly.”
They retreated to the far slope of the hill, where they were impossible to see and less likely to be heard. Even so, they kept their voices low and their movements slow and seldom.
“When I first hired you,” Daigoro said, “you didn’t know I intended you to deliver me here, neh? You thought I was making for my family’s compound?”
“Yes.”
“And you thought to encounter soldiers there?”
“Many.”
“What was your plan? How did you intend to get me inside?”
“Walk through the front door. Kill as many as necessary to do so.”
“Oh. Right.” I guess he doesn’t share my father’s beliefs about restraint, Daigoro thought. “And now?”
“Impossible now. Had six then. Now there is only me.”
“But you had a second plan in place, neh?”
The shinobi nodded. “Sneak you in over the wall.”
Daigoro could not keep the shock from his face. “That was your second plan? It’s easier than the first.”
“No. Killing men is easy. Easier still to make them desert their posts. Much more difficult to move among them unseen.”
“But that’s what you do. You’re shinobi.”
“I am. Not you.”
“And the message can only come from me.” Daigoro frowned. “It will do no good for Lord Yasuda to hear it from anyone else. But why can’t I just follow you over the wall?”
“Loud. Clumsy. Could have managed it before. Impossible now.”
“Why?”
“Had many targets before. Now only two.”
“No,” Daigoro said. “There must be fifty targets down there—”
He cut himself short, because suddenly the shinobi’s meaning became clear. His concern wasn’t with finding Toyotomis to kill; it was with Toyotomi arrows finding targets.
Daigoro didn’t care for being thought of as a target. Still, he supposed the shinobi had a point. His initial complement of six could have created distractions in every direction. They were trained in such arts. Now there was only one to distract the enemy—enough for a lone sentry, but not nearly enough to draw every last arrow away from Daigoro.
“I don’t suppose you have a second backup plan,” Daigoro whispered.
“Ten plans. Twenty. No matter. What you lack is time.”
It took Daigoro a moment to unravel what he meant by that—he was so tired—but at length he understood: Shichio was coming. Thus far he’d foreseen Daigoro’s every move. He’d placed an assassin in Daigoro’s bedchamber, he’d locked Izu under a blockade, and somehow he’d even stationed a garrison at the Green Cliff. The one gambit he hadn’t expected—commandeering the ketch—was only possible because he had foreseen the need to put the entire coastline under watch. If the storm hadn’t driven the ketch’s crew to port, Daigoro might never have made it as far as he did. Shichio had known Daigoro was heading north almost as soon as Daigoro set out. That would only accelerate his plans to marry Daigoro’s mother; in fact, he was probably already en route. If he came by road, Daigoro had a day or two at most. If he came as he did last time, by sea, he might arrive by morning.
Daigoro needed to deliver his message to Lord Yasuda, and he needed to do it now.
He looked at the shinobi, who still wore his pirated Toyotomi garb. The kiri crest drew his eye. “I know of one distraction compelling enough to draw off all those men,” he said. “Me. I’m the only bait they’re sure to go for.”
The shinobi gave him a nod.
“Then what choice do I have?” Daigoro said. “It’s time to give them what they want.”
55
The Toyotomi lieutenant could hardly believe his eyes. There he was, the Bear Cub of Izu. He went disguised, wearing Toyotomi colors, but there was no mistaking that enormous sword of his. It flashed in the moonlight, and even from a hundred paces off the lieutenant could hardly believe the size of it.
The boy was in hot pursuit, chasing one of the lieutenant’s own men. Both of them limped as much as ran. Rumor held that the Bear Cub had a lame leg; his quarry probably hobbled because the Bear Cub had wounded him. “Archers!” the lieutenant said. “Nock!”
Ten men leaped to their feet and put arrows to their bowstrings. “Mark,” the lieutenant said. “Draw.” His man was increasing his lead, but that made no matter; he should never have fled the enemy in the first place. If a stray arrow found him on its way to the Bear Cub, so be it. An ignominious death was exactly what he deserved.
Unless. Was there some conceivable reason to retreat? Or if not to retreat, to quickly return—and perhaps to report? That was it. General Shichio had authorized the lieutenant to handpick his detachment, and the lieutenant chose only good soldiers. Brave men, seasoned men, men patient enough to endure the boredom of garrison duty. Such men knew not to flee combat, especially not when the enemy was so a prized target. General Shichio had already promised a thousand koku to the one who claimed the Bear Cub’s head. The lieutenant didn’t approve of such incentives himself—it was merchant’s thinking, offering a reward simply for fulfilling one’s duty—and he’d chosen soldiers of similar mind. Not one of them would flee the Bear Cub unless he had something invaluable to report, something so important that the Bear Cub would risk exposure to cut him down.
The lieutenant ordered his men to relax their bowstrings. “You there,” he barked, pointing at the four door guards, “go protect that scout. Drive off the Bear Cub if you must, kill him if you can—”
It was too late. The Cub’s sword shone like a comet. It flashed in a wide glittering arc and the scout’s legs died under him, limp as wet rags. He collapsed bloodlessly; with a sword large enough to chop a man in half, the Bear Cub cut just deep enough to nick the spinal cord.
“Go, go!” the lieutenant yelled. The door guards were already in motion, spears leveled. “Archers, loose! Loose at will!”
The Bear Cub stood his ground, waving his sword defiantly above his kill. Arrows sang as they took flight. The lieutenant redeployed eight spearmen to guard the Yasuda gate and rallied the rest of his unit into formation.