eyes shot up to the scarred rafter. His sympathy for the rafter startled Daigoro. The peacock studied Glorious Victory’s edge, then the ceiling again, then the steel. “Oh, thank the gods. I didn’t blunt the sword.”
Daigoro looked at him in horror. Until now he hadn’t realized the depths of Shichio’s depravity. This man felt more for works of art than he did for human beings.
The same horror showed in Oda’s eyes. “Lord Kumanai, the boy is right,” he said. “Cut him loose and make him kneel. If he’s too cowardly to open his belly, I’ll behead him for you. But this . . . this is no way to kill a samurai.”
“Oh, but our Bear Cub isn’t a samurai, is he? Okuma Daigoro—now there was a samurai if ever there was one. But this whelp? Look at him. Does he shave his pate? No. Does he fight honorably? No. He comes dressed as a woman. Even now the smears of face paint linger, despite all the sweat and blood. He looks like a ghost.”
Shichio returned to the heap in the corner, where Daigoro’s clothes and armor were strewn. Lying atop the pile was Daigoro’s wakizashi, until Shichio kicked it across the room. The sight was more than Daigoro could bear. That was an Okuma blade. It once belonged to Daigoro’s father, and to his grandfather before him. Now this peacock had sullied it with his foot.
Shichio kicked it again. “What makes a samurai? The topknot and swords, neh?”
“Honor,” said Daigoro.
“Well, yes,” Shichio said, “that too. If you count a reign of terror as honorable. You’ll forgive me; I’ve only been samurai for a month. I haven’t quite worked out which acts of butchery our honor code permits.”
He kicked the sword again, rolling it toward Daigoro’s feet. “I understand the bit about the swords, though. Only samurai are allowed to wear the daisho. So if you’re not samurai, this wakizashi of yours is illegal, isn’t it? Yes. Yes, I think it is.”
Glorious Victory rose and fell. It sheared right through Daigoro’s wakizashi and into the tatami. The Inazuma was unharmed, but the Okuma blade lay in severed halves. Daigoro felt it as bitterly as if Shichio had cut off his arm.
“There,” Shichio said. “I have two swords and you do not. I have a surname and you do not. I have lands, and lordship, and this ghastly topknot. What does it matter which one of us has honor? I am samurai forever more. You will die a common criminal.”
Daigoro could stand no more. He pulled at his bonds but only succeeded in digging the ropes deeper into his wrists. Shichio enjoyed the show. He left Glorious Victory stuck in the floor, jutting up like the mast of a listing shipwreck. Stepping gingerly around it, he came to stand at Daigoro’s side. Then, in a sickening act of kindness, he caressed Daigoro’s cheek.
It was a lover’s caress. Daigoro pulled his head away, but there was only so far he could go. “My dear boy,” Shichio said. “We’re just getting started. These bonds will slow your bleeding considerably. And you’re a tough one, neh? Yes, you are. This could take until morning.”
Shichio drew Hideyoshi’s wakizashi again, and laid it against a strangled bulge of muscle just above Daigoro’s armpit. The blade was so close that Daigoro could see his panicked breaths misting on it. He watched as the blade glided smoothly through skin and sinew. Dark blood spilled from the wound, steaming on his skin. The sight made him gag.
He was not alone. Even Shichio seemed sick. Lord Oda actually ran from the room, his torch guttering loudly. He retched in the darkness. The sound redoubled Daigoro’s urge to vomit.
“Samurai!” Shichio said with a snort. “Savages and hypocrites, that’s all you are. Ask you to kill a thousand unarmed monks and you set about it with a will. But make it one of your own kind and it’s a different story, isn’t it? Render you unarmed, render you helpless, and all of a sudden the bloodletting is ‘dishonorable.’ Neh? Only now does it make you sick.”
“You too,” said Daigoro. “I can see it. You’re turning green. I guess you’re one of us after all.”
Shichio slapped him. “No! And . . . and yes.” His head sagged, pulled down by the mask. It was as if the mask had doubled in weight—and perhaps it had, not physically but morally. He was a different man wearing it. The pettiness was gone, replaced with a thirst