for blood. He gripped his sword like a half-starved dog clamping down on stolen food. His whole body spoke of desperation.
“It is wrong,” Shichio said. “I know it is. And yet . . .”
“Take the mask off,” Daigoro said softly. “Free yourself of it.” And then free me so we can fight like men, he thought.
“No!” Shichio snarled, baring his teeth. “I will not take orders from you. Command me again and I’ll cut out your tongue.”
“Do it,” Daigoro said. Better to drown in his own blood than to die one slice at a time. “I command it.”
Shichio took another piece out of him, just to show he could. Daigoro heard a grunt of dismay and realized Oda had returned. He hadn’t noticed before, which meant Oda must have doused his torch before coming inside. If he was to be a spectator to Daigoro’s torment, perhaps he did not want to see quite so vividly.
“Lord Oda,” Daigoro said, “look at the man you’ve taken sides with. He is a monster. You know this—and you are better than this. Remember your pride, my lord. Remember you are samurai.”
“Silence!” Shichio raised his sword as if to open Daigoro’s throat. Daigoro welcomed it; anything was better than dying piece by severed piece. “You killed his son! Have you forgotten?”
“No,” Daigoro said. “I remember. I took his son. I took his livelihood. But no man can take your honor, Lord Oda. Your enemies can take everything else from you, but you give up your honor of your own free will.”
He wished he could see Oda, to know whether his words had any effect. He could hear the man’s breathing, but Oda stood somewhere out of sight. Daigoro had little ability to look for him, for he could not move his head freely—not without cutting himself on Shichio’s razor-sharp sword.
“What’s this?” Shichio said. A smile spread behind those iron fangs. “Is that fear I see? Yes it is. You don’t like the look of my blade, do you?”
He took it back as if to sheathe it, then raised it so its tip hovered just in front of Daigoro’s right eyeball. It edged ever closer, until at last Daigoro’s eyelash brushed the very point of it, freeing a drop of blood that melted into Daigoro’s eye.
“I would scoop that eye right out of your head,” Shichio said, “if only I didn’t want you to see what comes next—”
He cut himself short. His sword fell mercifully away as Shichio sniffed the air. “What is that? Do you smell it?”
Daigoro did. Wood smoke. Now that the sword no longer dominated his attention, he noticed an orange glow in the back of the teahouse. It could not be approaching torches; the light was too low to the ground, and also much too loud. Daigoro could hear it crackling.
“Fire!” Oda said. “My lord, look!”
Shichio wheeled around just in time to see the flames crawl into the teahouse. A cold breeze came in off the water; the flames drank deeply of it, then sprang up the walls. They cloyed to the rafters and danced across the tatami. The heat was enough to beat back the breeze, filling the air with smoke.
“How?” Shichio said. “How is this possible?”
“The black powder,” said Oda. “It smolders sometimes. This damned wind must have rekindled it. My lord, this teahouse is over a hundred years old. Its timbers are as dry as an old wasp’s nest. We must go.”
Shichio twisted around like a snake, looking at Daigoro. He eyed the ropes binding Daigoro’s wrists and ankles, then looked back at the fire. Already the blaze had begun to blacken the ceiling. “Yes,” he said. “This will do nicely.”
47
Shichio had never seen a fire spread so fast. Already it had claimed three of the four walls for its own. It must have crawled along the outside of the teahouse before it ever ventured indoors, yet somehow it had gone undetected. Ah, yes, he thought. The breeze. That was the culprit. It had fended off the smell of smoke, and probably eddied behind the teahouse to fan the flames.
His only route of escape was to leap from the teahouse into the pool. His feet slipped on the slate when he landed, slamming him onto his tailbone. Oda followed, equally graceless, holding his swords high so he would not land on them. Shichio realized he should have done the same, then noticed Hashiba’s wakizashi was still in his hand, naked and gleaming. The pool had washed all the gore