“Yet you admit him into my house? Into my study? Do you have any idea how many scrolls I have in there, how many secrets—?”
Shichio cut himself off. There was one visitor he was willing to see at this hour, the only one who would arrive unnamed and unannounced. A week from now, he would have been anxious not to hear from this man, but Shichio hardly expected him to appear so soon. Leave it to Nene to vex him so sorely that he could forget his quarrel with the Bear Cub.
He strode past Jun, faintly aware that he owed the young man an apology, but it was not for a general to apologize. Not a samurai’s place to apologize, either, he realized. It was the first time today, but assuredly not the only time, that he had to remind himself of his new station.
The thought made him reach for his topknot, wondering just how unkempt it had become. In touching his hair he felt the leather thongs binding the mask in place. He’d entirely forgotten he was wearing it. Quickly changing course from the study, Shichio ducked into his residence and found a mirror, comb, and face powder in his dressing room. Then he remembered the sodden state of his kosode. He slipped into a curry yellow kimono and lordly black hitatare, and in that very moment he decided the colors of House Kumanai would be black and gold. They would be a fetching complement to Hashiba’s red and black.
The mask went into a little sleeve of Chinese brocade, which in turn went under his pillow. He remembered his swords, and then had to don a heavier obi to support their weight. Then he went to his study, adopting the measured pace befitting the lord of the clan.
There he found the most bestial human being he had ever laid eyes on. The shinobi’s face was as flat as a mountain monkey’s, and looked like it had been punched and kicked into those contours. His hair, mustache, beard, and single long eyebrow were all of uniform length. The backs of his hands were crawling with wiry black hair, which crept down even to the first digits of his fingers. Shichio would not have been surprised to see claws instead of fingernails.
“Lord Kumanai,” the shinobi growled.
“What? How did you know I—?”
“The Wind hears all.”
And so do you, even with all that hair sprouting out of your ears. Shichio was disappointed in himself; he shouldn’t have allowed this man to set him on his heels so quickly. He reclaimed his composure and folded himself into his customary seat behind his knee-high writing table. “I would offer you a drink, but I know you would refuse. What shall I call you?”
“I am of the Wind. The Wind is without name.”
“So you told my man Jun. Now you are speaking to me. I am your employer; I will have your name.”
“I am of the Wind. The Wind is without name.”
Shichio imagined his katana pointed at the shinobi. Then he imagined taking a step forward and spitting him right through the throat. “The Wind is also without number. I only have interest in one particular man. How am I to know you’re the shinobi who accompanied the Bear Cub to the Green Cliff?”
“Ask what you will. I can answer.”
Shichio bottled up his frustration and began to test him. The man proved as good as his word; he knew every detail, including the precise phrasing of the false missive Shichio had received, proclaiming Daigoro’s death. BEAR STRIPPED OF PELT TONIGHT. THERE IS NO MAN THE WIND CANNOT REACH. Shichio would never forget the elation he’d felt at reading it, or the crushing frustration when he learned it was false.
“The note was your handiwork, was it?”
“Yes.”
Shichio fumed. “Do you have any idea how much I’d like to kill you for sending that?”
“Stupid. Hopeless.”
It was clearly a threat—try it and you die—yet the shinobi showed not the slightest emotion. He was deadly, but like an earthquake, not a dragon. Both could swallow you up, but this one had no feelings about it, not even a conqueror’s glee.
Once again Shichio had no choice but to choke down his irritation and press forward. “Do you know why I’ve summoned you here? There are only two men alive who have worked closely with the Bear Cub since he became a fugitive. That ragged ronin of his is one. You are the other.”