“I can’t do that, Goemon. He’s already emptied his vault for me; I can’t ask him to go to the expense of—”
Katsushima stood up and took a step back, as physically separating himself from the money would also distance him from any responsibility for it. “Daigoro, he’s willing to help you. He may even be willing to saddle Kenbei with the expense of boarding his people and feeding their horses once they get where they’re going.”
“I can’t ask him to do that.”
“Then leave it here and we can take it to your family compound after we return from Atsuta. Either way, I go where you go.”
“Goemon, please—”
“Daigoro, when I announce myself at your front door and I present your wife and mother with all this coin, they’re going to ask where you are and whether you’re well. What would you have me tell them? That I turned my back on you? That I have no idea where you’ve gone or whether you’re still alive?”
It was a good point, and it stung. Indignant, Daigoro said, “You don’t owe me anything.”
“True. A ronin swears oaths to no one and no one swears oaths to him. He’s alone in this world except for his friends. I don’t owe you friendship, but you have it from me anyway.”
“I know, Goemon. But the money—”
“Isn’t any safer with me than it is with a fully armed platoon. Though I appreciate your esteem for my sword arm.”
Daigoro tried to object, but Katsushima silenced him with a look. “How many towns lie between here and your family’s doorstep? And in those towns, how many taverns? How many whores? Do you mean to send me along that road, with two sacks of brass and no one looking over my shoulder? Find a better way to spend your money, Daigoro.”
That was the finishing blow. Daigoro knew he’d lost the fight well before then, but that was what made him surrender. His head sagged, and a noise escaped him that was part laugh and part sigh, partly dejected and partly relieved. “Have it your way. But do one thing for me before we depart. Lend me a hairpin.”
29
Daigoro had heard of Atsuta Shrine because everyone had heard of it. Legend had it that Emperor Keiko founded it to house the Kusanagi no Tsurugi, the fabled Grass-Cutting Sword. At fifteen hundred years old, it was known simply as “the Shrine,” and it was without doubt one of the holiest places on the face of the earth.
Having heard of the Shrine did not prepare him in the slightest for the sheer size of it. In Izu, Shinto shrines were rarely more than a single sanctuary to enshrine the kami, connected by a short path to the obligatory torii. Osezaki, where he’d conducted his midnight rendezvous with Lady Nene, was uncommonly large; the smallest sites were little more than two upright posts connected by a braid of sacred rope. By contrast, the word “shrine”—even the Shrine—did not begin to describe Atsuta. Better to say it was a village of shrines, scattered throughout a sprawling forest under the protection of spirits, gods, and men.
A thick green canopy held in the cool humidity of recent rain, which condensed to form scores of tiny pearls on Daigoro’s forehead. The cool air came as joyous relief from the harried, hurried, breathless voyage from Yoshiwara. Back at Fuji-no-tenka, Jinichi had insisted that Daigoro should make all possible speed. He knew all about Shichio’s many eyes and ears, and about the roving packs of bear hunters. He also knew of a swift ship, Pride of Suruga, said to be able to make the run from Izu to Ayuchi in two days flat.
The Pride was as fast as Jinichi promised, but the weather was against her, so it was not until morning on the third day that Daigoro and Katsushima guided their mounts onto the boardwalk in the port city of Ayuchi. From there they rode straight to Atsuta, not stopping to break their fast. Daigoro was feeling pressed for time; the lost half day weighed on him as heavily as his Sora breastplate. But now, enveloped by cool air and history, he did not know what to do with himself.
The Shrine was a sight to behold. Narrow canals babbled here and there, their walls equal parts hand-laid rock and moss laid down by the tao. A bridge arching over the water formed a perfect wheel with its reflection. Decorative stone lanterns were home not to evanescent candles