was beyond bribery. Then he understood: pushing the box toward Shichio was a silent demand for payment. Shichio obliged him. He drew the carven chest closer, opened it, and clacked golden ryo on the tatami one by one until he reached the Wind’s price for that all-important question.
In that guttural, ursine voice, the shinobi said, “Atsuta Shrine.”
28
A brash and unusually ambitious rooster trumpeted its morning call from just outside Daigoro’s window. Its crow was loud enough to break pottery. Daigoro woke as suddenly as if the damned beast had pecked him in the forehead.
If only he’d had his bow ready to hand, he would have shot it through the heart and carried it down to the kitchens. Nothing could be a better memoriam for his murdered sleep than eating its killer for breakfast. Why the bird had flown all the way up to a third-story windowsill was a mystery. There was no feed to scratch, no hens to pester, no other cocks to challenge. It wasn’t even daybreak yet.
Daigoro wormed back between the futon and closed his eyes. Again the wretched monster blared its defiance. “Be gone!” he shouted, and still half in a daze he fumbled for something to throw. His hand found something knife-shaped, and before he knew it he flung it right out the window. It wheeled end over end, and had it been a knife it would have pierced the creature right through its evil black heart. Sadly, he’d only thrown his hairpin. The rooster squawked, flapped noisily to the next window, and resumed its harangue from just out of throwing range.
Daigoro was not yet ready to bear the indignity of limping downstairs with his hair drooping to his shoulders, so he retreated to the dwindling warmth of his futon and thought about his brother. Ichiro would have marched down to the yard to fetch a longbow. Even in the dark, he would only need one shot. He was the finest archer in the northlands. Everyone said so.
Daigoro often woke to thoughts of the family members he’d lost. Ichiro, lying in red slush. His blood stained the snow and made it steam. Their father, cold and pale, staring up at the cold, pale sky. Were Okuma men doomed to die on the road? Would this journey claim Daigoro’s life before the end? Was there any way to know his fate other than to ride forth and meet it?
The damnable bird crowed again. Sleep had become a priceless luxury in Daigoro’s life, but this morning it was lost to him. Of all the wondrous inventions created by mortal man, he’d never imagined that a soft, clean, warm, dry bed was foremost among them. Life as a samurai could never have taught him that; he could learn it only as a fugitive.
At last he dragged himself from his rooms, bleary-eyed and annoyed. His hair was undone, but at least he could don his swords. He would feel naked without them, especially since he also had to carry what Jinichi had given him: two big sacks of brass coins. It was more money than Daigoro had ever seen in his life. He slung a bag over each shoulder and limped ponderously down the stairs, making his way toward the stables. He had to step very carefully with his right foot, lest he buckle his knee; he was carrying half his own body weight in coin.
As he neared the horse barn he found his mare snorting and shaking her head. She wore a pack harness, and it seemed to rub at her the wrong way. Katsushima tugged at it here and there, making adjustments. “Look at this,” he said when he saw Daigoro. As little as he cared for decorum, he didn’t even notice the state of Daigoro’s hair. “Remember that clever fellow who brought in your horse last night? It seems he’s been up to no good.”
“Oh, no.” Daigoro limped closer to stroke his mare’s neck. She settled down a bit, and he unlimbered his heavy bags, which hit the ground with chittering, clinking sounds. “What’s wrong?”
“Wrong? Nothing. You’re ronin, Daigoro; being up to no good is what you do now.”
Katsushima had a mischievous gleam in his eye. He’d always enjoyed ruffling Daigoro’s feathers. Usually Daigoro was a good sport about it, but this morning had already been a trial.
“See here,” Katsushima said, tugging again on the horse’s tack. “Looks like a pack harness, neh? Fill these crates and you’d say she can’t bear any more.”