the night to muster enough strength to climb that damned rope.
As weak as he’d been, he couldn’t manage the weight of his father’s sword, so he had to pull it up behind him. Tied with it were the remains of his Sora yoroi, which he’d wrapped in a makeshift bag made from a fallen samurai’s kimono. Everything not made of metal had burned away, but the most important piece was still intact: the scarred steel breastplate. It was supposed to be lacquered in white, the color of death. As soon as Daigoro had picked it up from the embers of the teahouse, the lacquer disintegrated, blowing away like so many cherry blossoms on the wind. There was a poem to be written there, Daigoro thought.
Tied to his odachi and armor was one last encumbrance: his new wakizashi. Since Shichio destroyed Daigoro’s short sword, Daigoro had replaced it with Shichio’s. In addition to having a certain sentimental value—namely, Shichio’s bloodstains—the sword also had a lineage not far shy of Glorious Victory Unsought’s. It had once belonged to Toyotomi Hideyoshi himself.
“How is it that you come by such noble swords?” Katsushima had said when he saw it. “That makes two for you and none for me.” When Daigoro pointed out that Hideyoshi’s katana lay somewhere in the underbrush, Katsushima laughed ruefully. “Let the weeds have it.”
They’d returned together along the meandering trail that had first led Katsushima up to the cliff overlooking Obyo Falls. From there they’d shuffled on weary feet to the first homely house that would take them in—a brothel, not surprisingly. Katsushima was a veritable homing pigeon when it came to finding whores. The madam had promised she could get them the rest of the way home if the price was right, but neither Daigoro nor Katsushima could bear the indignity of how she meant to send them. She had a good packhorse with two large baskets slung on either side of the saddle. “The baskets are most comfortable,” she’d insisted. “My girls travel this way all the time. Their feet are as soft as a babe’s.”
Raw and blistered though they were, Daigoro still thought his feet were tougher than a baby’s, and on no account would Katsushima be seen sitting in a basket like a heap of laundry. Instead, the two of them opted to keep their rooms for a few nights, lingering until Daigoro felt he’d recovered strength enough to ride. His wounds never stopped weeping, though, and in the end he overruled Katsushima’s counsel of patience. As soon as the ronin started showing signs of a fever, Daigoro’s concern for Katsushima’s hands outweighed any concern he had for himself.
Now, approaching the great stronghold of House Yasuda, Daigoro found he could hardly keep himself ahorse. A dull ache had penetrated his thighs and belly and back. That was just from the effort of staying in the saddle; his burns and cuts pained him still more. He couldn’t help but remember the last time he’d ridden through the Green Cliff’s gate, when Katsushima had to tie him into the saddle just so Daigoro could stay on his horse. This time felt much the same, except Katsushima was in no state to tie knots.
As the great gate yawned open, Daigoro mustered the last of his strength to hold himself tall and proud. He would not have Kenbei and Azami see him loll drunkenly in the saddle. In the courtyard he saw the master and mistress of the house, and also Yasuda Jinichi, Kenbei’s elder brother and lord of Fuji-no-tenka. Daigoro saw his mother there as well, holding her little lord and husband, Gorobei. Akiko stood beside them, looking radiant in red. She’d chosen a bright yellow obi to emphasize the child growing so swiftly in her womb. Daigoro wanted to leap off his horse and kiss her belly.
But the fact that so many were in attendance did not bode well. No doubt they had come to pay a final visit to Yasuda Izu-no-kami Jinbei, master of the Green Cliff, patriarch of House Yasuda. Daigoro could imagine other reasons they might have come—Jinichi to escort his money to his venal brother, Aki to see Daigoro a half-day sooner—but in all likelihood, Lord Yasuda had taken a turn for the worse.
Aki blanched when she saw Daigoro. As well she might, he thought. He was burnt as red as a boiled lobster, and Shichio’s bonds had left raw, suppurating cuffs around his wrists. The cuts Shichio had taken out of Daigoro’s back,