“Sounds to me like you’re more interested in the knife than the thief. Do you mind if I ask why?”
No harm in asking, Daigoro thought, if only Katsushima didn’t have me on edge. But now that his hackles were up, he realized the priest hadn’t answered any of his questions. Daigoro didn’t know what to make of that. The abbot of Katto-ji was just as inscrutable. Was it a clergyman’s duty to ask enigmatic questions? Or was this priest concealing something, as Katsushima suspected?
Only one thing was sure: Katsushima distrusted the man. Daigoro had never known his friend to be wrong in such matters. He raised the cup to his lips to judge the priest’s reaction. There was none. “Still too hot for my liking,” he said, lowering the cup once more. “If you don’t care to discuss the knife or the thief, we can talk about something else.”
“Such as?”
“A different tall tale,” Daigoro said. “In this one, you and I don’t meet by chance. You’re told a story about a boy whose sword is too big for him, a boy with a keen interest in the blade known as Streaming Dawn. You were told to wait for him at the Shrine. But you never expected him to appear so quickly. You thought to look for him some days from now, but this afternoon you spy a young man fitting his description. He wears no house insignia, so you have to ask him about the blade. It’s the only way to be sure you’ll strike the right target.”
“Target? I am no arrow, sir.”
“No? Perhaps your role was simply to mark me out for hidden archers.”
The priest’s face soured. “No doubt my young lord is tired from his long journey, and that is why he speaks to a high priest of the Shrine in such a rude, suspicious tone. Perhaps a little tea might refresh his body and temper his spirit. . . .”
“You see, that’s just it. We never mentioned any journey to you.”
“Nor did you need to.” The priest maintained his stern, paternal facade. He was a masterful liar, or else a wronged and innocent man. “It’s your accents. You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”
“Oh, but I do,” said Katsushima. “I was born not ten ri from where we sit.”
“I don’t care for your tone either,” said the priest. “A man your age should have more sense. What do you make of your friend’s story? Do you think the hallowed ground of Atsuta is crawling with archers? Was I to paint a red circle on the young man’s chest when he entered the Shrine?”
Katsushima’s only answer was to loosen his katana with a flick of the thumb.
The priest stood in a huff and made for the door. “Insult me if you will, sir, but I will not stand for being threatened. I’ll leave you two to enjoy your tea—and to speak spitefully about me behind my back, I have no doubt.”
It was the fact that he was pretending to leave that made Daigoro drop his guard.
It was only for the blink of an eye. Daigoro had been watchful from the moment he voiced his suspicions. So long as the priest continued to feign innocence, he remained a threat. It was only in that brief instant when the priest turned to remove himself from the room that Daigoro relaxed.
The blade of the priest’s foot struck him in the throat.
Daigoro went flat on his back. He could hardly breathe.
Katsushima was already in motion, his katana snapping out like a whip. Somehow the priest was faster. He spun in a low whirl; his long sleeves flew like wings. One white sleeve caught Katsushima’s sword. With a quick twist, the priest wrapped up both the katana and the arm holding it.
Daigoro rolled to his knees. The priest’s heel caught him in the temple. Daigoro blacked out. He came to an instant later when his face struck the floor. He saw Katsushima struggling to pull his sword free. The priest jammed his thumb into Katsushima’s eye socket, and Katsushima had no choice but to retreat or be blinded.
He reeled away and drew his wakizashi and tanto. Daigoro had never seen his friend fight two-bladed before. No one had ever taken his katana before.
Katsushima sprang to the attack, a hurricane of flashing steel. The priest was a typhoon of swirling white. The two storms collided. Blood flew; Daigoro could not tell whose.