to me: to die as a samurai. As did my wife. As did my son. I suppose I ought to thank you for that too.”
“You need thank me for nothing,” said Daigoro. “Tell me, is there anything I can do for you?”
Oda’s eyes widened in surprise. Perhaps he had not looked for such generosity from the Bear Cub of Izu. He studied Daigoro for a long moment, pensive and silent. At last he said, “Yes. There is one thing you can do. Kill me.”
“My lord, please—”
“You asked, so I’ve answered. Let a line of warriors end as warriors. What hope do I have of dying with a sword in my hand? My warring days are long past me. I cannot even teach kenjutsu anymore. No one will come. When I die, my family’s dojo dies with me, and I must go to my forefathers to tell them I failed them. Give me this one thing at least: let me tell them I died on an Inazuma blade.”
Daigoro was horrified at the thought. Even so, he knew it was not his place to question a samurai’s wishes. Like it or not, Daigoro wasn’t samurai anymore. Though it pained him even to think it, he said, “If my lord were to challenge me to a duel, I suppose I could—”
“No!” Oda sprang to his feet, overflowing with rage. “My last act in this life will not be to suffer defeat. I did not say duel with me. I said kill me. In cold blood. Draw your sword if you have the courage, or else be gone.”
Daigoro struggled to his feet. “Lord Oda, we must find a middle path. There is still something I must ask of you.”
Oda coughed and staggered back, just as if Daigoro had kicked him in the chest. “You dare to ask a favor? Of me? After all you’ve done?”
“Begging your pardon, my lord, but in the eyes of the law and in the eyes of men, I have done your family no wrong. I did only what bushido requires of me. I think you know this, Lord Oda. I think you understand bushido better than most, or else you would not rue the prospect of dying as less than a samurai.”
Oda’s face grew red. The tendons and veins in his neck stood out. The way he pursed his mouth, he looked angry enough to spit. “Ask, then.”
“Are you any relation to Oda Nobunaga?”
“Of course. The Odas and Odas are cousins. Our branch is the more storied lineage, I’ll have you know—or at least it was, until that sadist Nobunaga chopped his way into power.”
“There is a woman I must reach out to. She was a friend to . . . to the sadist Nobunaga. She said I could make contact with her through her allies with House Oda.”
“Ah. And you believe I am one of these allies?”
“I don’t know. But I think you must know someone who is. He was powerful here. So were you.”
Oda wiped his hand over his mouth. Daigoro could hear his whiskers scraping against the pads of his fingers. “This woman you want to reach, is her name Nene by any chance?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are a fool. What business could the Lady in the North possibly have with a half-dead, homeless, crippled, bloodthirsty ronin?”
Daigoro did not rise to the bait. Clearly Lord Oda still wanted to die. There was no other reason to insult an armed man so brashly. “Our business is our own,” he said flatly.
“Our business? Talk to her often, do you?”
“These days more often than usual.” That much was not a lie. Clearly it impressed Oda; it wiped the smirk off his face.
“I see,” Oda said gravely. “So this is the favor you would ask of me? To send word to Lady Nene?”
“Yes. Most importantly, I want your sworn word that no one else will intercept the message.”
Now the smirk came back. “Don’t be an ass. These are troubled times. War is afoot. Who can guarantee that a messenger should find his way through unmolested?”
“You can and you will. Carry the message yourself if you must.”
Drawing himself up to his full height, Oda sneered. Daigoro could see where Yoshitomo’s swagger had come from. “So now I’ve become your pageboy, eh? But you’ve told me too much, Daigoro. Someone wants to read your letters. Perhaps this someone wants to know where you are. Are you a hunted man, Daigoro?”
“You are enjoying yourself entirely too much, sir. I can only hope you will do