he mock it, and he begrudgingly allowed his student to wear it while training. As well he should, Shichio thought, since I am his only income. Oda hadn’t yet given him cause to mention this aloud, another testament to his new sensei’s wisdom.
“She is here,” said Oda, nodding toward a twittering flock of sparrows startled from their roost. Once again the man proved his usefulness. Since he was Nene’s confidant, Shichio decided to keep him at his side; if she sent archers or arquebusiers, fear of hitting her friend might make them reluctant to let fly.
“What do you think?” Shichio asked. “Will she come herself, or will she send an envoy?”
Oda gave him a puzzled look. “Her messenger said she had to see this gift with her own eyes. Isn’t that what you told me?”
“Yes, it is.” And you believe every single thing you hear, Shichio thought. Poor man. “Soon enough we’ll see if she is as good as her word, won’t we? Yes, we will.”
Soon enough, her horse came into view—but not with Nene. The woman in the saddle was chubby, almost barrel-chested. A huge parasol rested on her shoulder, and a silken veil shielded her against the armies of biting insects that made the valley their home. She wore lilac and lavender, not Nene’s finest colors, though Shichio recalled seeing her ladies-in-waiting dressed that way. The man walking ahead of her horse, leading it by the rein, was flailing at a cloud of mosquitoes. Shichio recognized him by his black hachimaki. Nezumi. He wore a sword on one hip and a quiver on the other, and swatted uselessly at the mosquitoes with a long, black bow.
“I do not think that is Lady Nene,” Oda said.
No, Shichio thought, and perhaps you might also like to announce whether you think that bright disc in the sky is the sun or the moon. “Well, what do you know? She broke her word to us. Later we’ll have to talk about how often she does that.”
“This one must be a trusted handmaiden.”
Yes, Shichio thought, and it’s the sun, by the way; the moon comes later.
“Lord Kumanai,” Nezumi called. “My lady sends her greetings. And I bring you tidings: the Bear Cub still lives.”
Shichio bit back a frustrated growl. “You know this because you found him? Or because you are wasting my time with an idle guess?”
“Heh heh. I found him right enough. I meant to kill him too, and collect your bounty, but your bear hunters botched it. Don’t you worry, though. When he shows up here, I’ll be the first to put an arrow in him—and then I’ll expect the rest of the reward you promised.”
Expect a few arrows of your own, Shichio thought. Nezumi’s eyes flicked down to the mask, and Shichio realized that imagining those piercing arrows must have heightened his ardor for it. Now he cradled the mask in one hand and stroked it with the other, just like a pet. One finger traced the rim of an eyehole, running around and around and around.
“Your reward,” Shichio said, snapping himself back to the present. “Yes. You’re sure he’ll come?”
“Heh heh. You tell me. How much does he want to kill you?”
Shichio nodded, granting the point. Nezumi smacked a mosquito, squashing it against his forearm and leaving a bloody smudge where it died. The sight of blood usually sickened Shichio, but today it titillated. The mask was unusually hungry—perhaps because triumph was so close at hand? No. This was something else. Something familiar. But he could not place it.
Nezumi stopped the horse some six or seven paces away, and when the girl in lilac tried to dismount, she slipped out of the saddle. Shichio caught only a glimpse as the veil fluttered away from her face, her mouth open in a dumbstruck O. He imagined her embarrassed blush under that white face paint. A delicate courtier like this one had probably never ventured so deep into the wild. Shichio knew everyone thought of him as effete, but at least he knew how to step in and out of the saddle.
No doubt Nezumi also thought of him as effeminate, and saw Oda as the only threat here. So much the better. Shichio glanced up to the falls, verifying that all of his bowmen remained invisible, but something drew his attention back to Nene’s errand boy—or rather, to his sword. It was the mask that called to him. It seemed to writhe in his hand, waking a lust that crawled through