Disciple of the Wind (12 page)

Even so, he still wondered whether he ought to turn the procession around and march straight back down to the bay. It was safe by the water. Shichio could have commandeered the harbormaster’s home and set a guard. For that matter, he could have boarded the flagship alone and waited for Hashiba to come to him. Hashiba wouldn’t be pleased, but suffering his wrath was better than feeling the Bear Cub’s sword biting through his flesh. Somehow the whelp still remained unseen. It followed that he could not be traveling by road or by sea, and that only left hiking overland—possibly on a darkening mountain slope just like the north face of Mount Daruma.

Three days earlier, when he’d sat down to tea with Inoue Shigekazu, Shichio had blown and blustered about the Bear Cub, insisting that all the tales of the boy’s prowess were grossly exaggerated. The truth was that even the wildest exaggerations weren’t far from the truth. In the month since his wedding disaster, Shichio had steadily gathered all the facts. There had never been a creeping horde of ninja at the Green Cliff, as he’d told Inoue. Daigoro had no more than one
shinobi
in his employ. Together, the two of them had overpowered the night watch of a naval frigate—all armed men, trained well in their duties. There hadn’t been any need for the fools to
defeat
the Bear Cub; they had only to live long enough to sound a horn. But the Bear Cub could move invisibly at will.

An entire warship, stolen. Not a word raised in warning. The same ship broke Shichio’s blockade. Not a single spyglass saw it happen. From there the whelp and his
shinobi
went on to cut down fifty men at the Green Cliff. Some survivors said the boy’s tattered, gray-haired
ronin
fought as well. Others swore they watched arrows and musket balls shatter against the boy’s skin. All agreed that “Bear Cub” was the most misleading epithet ever given. “Demon Spawn” was closer to the mark.

And now here was Shichio, surrounded by twenty samurai and
whispering to himself, “Only twenty.” When he finally spied Hashiba’s encampment, the sight was like air to a drowning man. He wished he were sitting in a saddle, not a sedan chair. He’d have whipped his horse like a courser in the final stretch, galloping for the safety of camp.

The camp was a series of fabric walls suspended on taut lines from tall poles. Some were white, others red, others gold. All were emblazoned with the kiri blossom of Toyotomi Hideyoshi. The longest walls formed large, four-sided enclosures, and at this hour many of them glowed as if foxfires were trapped within. Shichio could smell wood smoke from the cook fires, and got a whiff now and then of succulent pork or sizzling fish. There were the other smells of camp too: horse dung, rice steam, sprays of tansy to ward off mosquitoes.

Hashiba’s enclosure was the largest of them all, closest to the center. By their very nature the long fabric walls tended to form ad hoc roads, and that made the palanquin impractical. Corners were tight, and there would be no straight path to Hashiba’s side. The camp always came into being organically, with no preordained design. Hashiba was in the center because he was always in the center. His high command staked out claims next to his. After that, the various platoons settled in more or less at random. There was no disarray; this was a military encampment, after all. Every corner was a precise right angle and every guy was tied with a perfect tent-line hitch. It was perfectly orderly; there just wasn’t any logic to it. But there would be no Bear Cub here, so Shichio stepped out of his palanquin and into the cooler evening air.

He wended his way through the maze, greeting officers when he recognized them and paying the common men no mind. Hashiba’s enclosure was at least ten
jo
on a side, large enough to practice mounted archery—which was precisely what Hashiba had been up to, judging by the wide rings of hoofprints and the target posts at their center. There wasn’t a drop of warrior’s blood in Hashiba’s body, but ever since the emperor bestowed him with the right to wear the topknot and
daisho
, he did enjoy playing at being samurai.

He’d called for a tall tower to be built along the back wall. That
must have been a colossal task for the carpenters, given that there wasn’t a tall, straight tree trunk anywhere on the mountain. Shichio guessed the uprights were spare masts plundered from the fleet in the bay. He could also guess at the tower’s purpose. Hashiba always preferred to look at the world from high above, as much for the quiet as the feeling of lordship. This tower would afford him a majestic view of the sunset on the bay, and of the stars when they came out in their fullness.

Shichio brushed aside a fold of canvas and slipped into Hashiba’s enclosure. Even as he entered, he heard Hashiba coming down from the viewing deck. He was speaking to someone, too softly for Shichio to make out the words. In the failing light he couldn’t see Hashiba either; attendants had erected two bright fires on either end of the square, which left spots in Shichio’s vision.

“Shichio-san,” said a voice from above. “Your timing is most fortunate. We were just speaking of you.”

Shichio’s heart sank into his stomach. He knew that light, lilting voice. Now he had no choice but to kneel in the dust and bow. “Nene-dono. I wasn’t told you had come.”

“I have been away from my husband for long enough,” said Nene, Lady in the North, first and foremost of Hashiba’s wives. She wore orange and gold tonight, lavishly embroidered with crisscrossing cedar leaves. The train of her kimono was half as long as she was tall, and the cuffs of her sleeves hung down to her knees. Long black hair spilled down her back, with two neat tails draped over her collarbones and hanging down to the tips of her breasts. Her lips were painted black, her face white, with two black dots halfway up her forehead to symbolize the eyebrows she’d shaved away.

Nene walked with her hands tucked inside her voluminous sleeves, not arm in arm as Hashiba often walked with his wives and concubines. The regent had never been shy of physical contact, but he and Nene maintained quite a chaste relationship. She had provided him no sons—no children at all, in fact—but more than this, Hashiba seemed to think of her like an elder sister. She was ten years his junior, but
from the beginning of their marriage, she had been his confidante and political advisor. It was absurd. No other warlord in the land would allow his wife to dictate policy.

In truth Nene
dictated
nothing. She had nothing to do with his military council, but in his political dealings she had been a central figure for as long as Shichio had known him. Even Oda Nobunaga had held her in great esteem. For that matter, Shichio had to admit that he himself gave her respect in his own way. She was his only worthy adversary. She was the reason he’d first seduced Hashiba into sailing to Izu instead of riding up the Tokaido. Nene had no stomach for sea travel, and avoided ships at all costs.

“Come on, get up,” Hashiba said. “Let’s have a seat. We’ve got things to talk about.”

As if by magic, attendants appeared out of the deepening shadows. They arrayed three folding stools near one of the fires, and Hashiba sat in the center. It did not slip by Shichio that Nene sat at Hashiba’s right hand.

No, he thought, not Hashiba. That had been his name when Shichio first met him, and so Shichio had called him ever since. But in the company of others, Hashiba became the great Lord General Toyotomi no Hideyoshi, Chief Minister and Imperial Regent. Shichio must speak to him as his lord, not his equal. That too separated him from Nene. She had always spoken to him like a sister. He was still a powerful man, and she accorded him that respect, but she was allowed a degree of familiarity that Shichio could only express when he and Hashiba—no, Toyotomi-dono—were alone.

By the time Shichio sat, servants were already on their way with
sake
and tea and cold soba noodles to whet the appetite. “Shichio, tell me,” the regent said, “did you see the sunset?”

“I did, Toyotomi-dono.”

“Beautiful,
neh
?”

“It was, Toyotomi-dono.”

“Good. Let it be the last one. We’re going back to Kyoto.”

Shichio bristled but could not let it show. It was true that Hashiba
bored easily—bored as easily as a child, in fact—but this idea sounded like Nene’s, not his.

“My lord, the Bear Cub—”

“Grew tiresome long ago. Don’t mistake me: that wedding of yours was the best entertainment I’ve had all year. Oh, take that look off your face. You’d see the humor in it too, if only you didn’t take that boy and his monk so damned seriously. We’re going home, Shichio.”

Shichio willed himself to stay calm. He would not walk away from the Bear Cub. He couldn’t. Glorious Victory Unsought was the only thing that could sate the mask. Apart from that, Shichio was not one to forgive a grudge. The whelp had to die. As painfully as possible. That was all there was to it.

He looked at Nene, who gave him a friendly smile. “If this Daigoro is an enemy of the throne, then by all means, remain here,” she said. “May I ask what sort of threat he presents?”

The whelp knows the truth, Shichio thought, and that truth will kill me as surely as a
kaishakunin
’s
sword. It was a miracle that the story hadn’t reached Hashiba’s ears already. At long last Shichio’s spies had captured a mail carrier, whose packet included a letter describing the Battle of Komaki in exacting detail. The trouble was, they’d only intercepted the one. If the Bear Cub had finally decided to circulate the story, Shichio’s men should have run across it more than once by now. Something was very, very wrong.

But none of that would persuade Hashiba or Nene. “He embarrassed me publicly,” Shichio said. “Is it not enough that I should defend my honor?”

“Oh, yes,” Nene said. Her frown seemed to convey genuine sympathy. That was a sham, of course, but the woman had real talent. “My people passed word to me about that atrocious wedding. Believe me, Shichio-san, my husband may find it humorous, but I do not. I sympathize with your plight entirely. In fact, I’ve found a way to heal the wound. If you’ll accept it, of course.”

My people,
Shichio thought. He knew she was well informed, but this was something else. The reference to her “people” meant she
hadn’t heard about the wedding from Hashiba, but that raised a new question: how did the woman have spies this far north? Had she brought them with her? Did they fly ahead of her, heralding her advance like a swarm of fireflies? If so, then why hadn’t Shichio’s agents warned him of her arrival?

He forced a sweet, submissive smile. “My lady, I am eager to hear your proposal.”

“Kanagawa-juku. My old friend Oda Nobunaga had many allies there. I have found a suitable house for you, an old and respected clan with some ten thousand
koku
. House Urakami. Their fief includes one of the largest cities in the province.”

The largest, and still a fishing village. Shichio knew of it. It was thirty-odd
ri
north and east of Izu, which was to say thirty-odd
ri
deeper into the barbarian hinterlands. Its remoteness was its tactical value. Shichio knew of it because the Odawara Hojos were one of the last holdouts in the north, and sooner or later Hashiba would have to fight them. As a coastal power, they would be difficult to attack by sea. By land, every approach from the south was utterly predictable. Shichio’s plan was to sail past them by night, putting ashore at the sleepy little post town of Kanagawa-juku. From there the army could land in force and march on Odawara from the north.

“It is so far from Kyoto, my lady.”

“But not so far from Izu. If this boy remains a threat, root him out. Then hold the north for us. Marry well and live well. As I said, House Urakami is a noble and venerated clan. Its lord died of the flux and now his dowager rules in his stead. I sent word to her and she has consented to accept your hand.”

“Sent word?” Shichio was ashamed he’d uttered it aloud. Ordinarily he was the master of his own tongue, but this was outrageous news. Nene must have written weeks ago if she’d heard back from these Urakamis already. How long had she been simmering this little scheme?

“My lady, I appreciate your generosity. Let no man say I don’t. But—”

“Excellent,” said Hideyoshi. “It’s settled, then.” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. When he smiled, he exposed teeth jumbled so haphazardly that they seemed to have been thrown into his mouth. They were sharp, and instead of standing like soldiers in an orderly line, they leaned against one another like so many drunks. “Steward!” he called. “Rice. Fish. Cook up some of that southern beef, too, the cut we had last night. Shichio, you’ve got to try this stuff. Nene’s cooks brought it in her baggage train. It’s the best damn thing you’ve ever tasted.”

“My lady is most generous. But Toyotomi-dono, I have given much thought to what some of the officers have been saying. Is it proper for a man of my station to take on his wife’s name in marriage? I am a general after all—”

“But willing to marry Lady Okuma,” Nene said. “Is that not so?”

“It was,” Shichio admitted. He hoped he’d said it without too much of a hiss.

“Aha,” she said. “Is the problem that House Okuma is too small a name for one of my honored husband’s favorite generals? The name Urakami is not so small. They are cousins to House Oda, who are cousins to my own house of Sugaihara. Their shadow stretches back over many hundreds of years.”

Damn this woman, Shichio thought. She’s foreseen my every move. He tried to keep his frustration off his face, with only moderate success. “My lady, I know this sort of concern seems trivial to you. You married a man of common descent despite your own samurai lineage. I daresay that was most foresightful of you, but also most unorthodox. And your husband did not take your name; he forged a name for himself, in the eyes of the emperor and all men.”

“Then can you not do the same?”

That got Shichio’s hackles up, but again he stifled that reaction before it reached his face. “I humbly serve in whatever capacity my lord general asks of me. I do not aspire to follow in his footsteps.”