still had a financial stranglehold on House Okuma, and they were relying on Sora’s support to tighten it. With luck, Sora would see Streaming Dawn as not a gift but a curse; then Daigoro could give the knife to Nene and still retain Sora’s loyalty.
In the end Nezumi was the one to break eye contact, and Daigoro knew he’d won. “Have it your own way,” Nezumi said. “I’ll find my lady on the road and tell her to meet you at the Sora compound. Then you’ll see how she reacts to taking orders from the likes of you.”
39
Lord Sora’s prisoner was a stringy, flea-bitten wretch. He was as pallid as a cave-dwelling creature, pinching his eyes tight against the sun. Daigoro wondered how long it had been since he’d seen daylight.
The prisoner hung limply from his bonds, a portrait of defeat. Not that struggle would have done him much good; the ropes that held him were thick and sure. His jailer had bound him wrist and ankle to a stout length of pine that was planted into the ground in the center of Lord Sora’s courtyard. A considerable crowd had amassed around him, some out of duty, others out of curiosity. Rumors had spread of Streaming Dawn’s power. Gruesome as it was, many of these people wanted to see it for themselves.
There were orange-clad Sora samurai, servants in faded blues and grays, Daigoro and Katsushima in their armor of white, Lady Nene in resplendent purple, her honor guard in Toyotomi red and gold, her handmaids dressed to complement their mistress in shades of lavender, lilac, and plum. The colors were radiant in the bright noon sun, which warmed the dwarf pines surrounding the courtyard and filled the air with their scent.
Even such a beautiful day could not lighten Daigoro’s mood. “Lord Sora,” he whispered, “is there no other way?”
Sora Izu-no-kami Nobushige stood with his guests not two paces from the poor soul bound to the stake. He dwarfed Daigoro and Nene, and the broad yellow shoulders of his haori made him seem all the larger. Even in his winter years he had strong, heavy arms. He wore the armor that had made him famous, impervious steel lacquered in the colors of sunset. His white eyebrows stood out starkly against his red face, and he arched one of them skeptically at Daigoro. “Are you so delicate that you can’t stand the sight of blood? I had thought as much of Lady Nene, but not of you.”
Lady Nene replied with a cold, superior smile. “Have you ever seen a man crucified, Lord Sora? It is a ghastly sight, and also one of my honored husband’s latest fancies. I assure you, a little bloodshed will not trouble my sleep.”
“It is honor, not blood, that concerns me,” Daigoro said. “What were this man’s crimes?”
“He broke a blacksmith’s arm in a fight,” Sora said. He spoke too loudly; a lifetime of hammering steel in the forge had dulled his hearing. “He cost a good man his livelihood.”
That was hardly true; a broken arm would heal quickly enough. But Lord Sora was partial to blacksmiths. Armoring had been his highest martial art. Because the prisoner and the smith had fought on his lands, Sora was sovereign to give any punishment he saw fit. Daigoro saw no need to kill this man, much less to torture him in full public view, but he had no say in the matter.
“I will not have a ronin lecture me on questions of honor,” Sora said. He strode forward, slid Streaming Dawn from its sheath, and pushed it slowly into the prisoner’s gut.
Gasps and whispers filled the courtyard, barely audible over the prisoner’s agony. He wailed and cursed but did not bleed.
“Well, now,” Sora boomed. “I will confess this is something I did not expect.”
“Nor I,” said Lady Nene. Daigoro could hear the wonder in her voice. He was awestruck himself, unable to take his eyes from the bloodless wound even though this was not the first time he’d seen its witchery.
The prisoner pulled mightily at his bonds, perhaps in the hope of drawing the knife from his gut. But the cords held fast. He could only kick at the ground and howl.
“Young Daigoro-san tells me he suffered the blade’s bite himself,” Lord Sora said. “It was quite painful, neh?”
“More painful coming out,” Daigoro muttered. He was accustomed to a sama from Sora Nobushige, but that was before he’d surrendered his name and station.
“What of subsequent wounds? Does Streaming Dawn make