Inoue stiffened. His eyes flitted here and there as if an assassin might pop out from any corner. “General Shichio, why would I assist the boy I hate most in the world?”
“Why indeed?” He let the question hang in the air for a moment, and let the little man wonder if Shichio meant to have his answer by tearing the compound apart. “Well, of course you wouldn’t, would you? Harboring a fugitive is a crime. But then where is the Bear Cub? I have agents on every road, in every port, at every checkpoint. They swear he has not slipped them by. Have they lied to me?”
“Lied? I think not. But there is more to Izu than ports and checkpoints.”
“Obviously.” Shichio was not stupid. He knew the difference between the fiction illustrated on a map and the truth laid out by the land.
Inoue paled at Shichio’s tone. “A thousand apologies, my lord. Suffice it to say that I have eyes and ears everywhere, and all of them are out bear hunting. If Daigoro is in Izu, my people will find him.”
“And if he attempts to leave, mine will find him.” Shichio smiled thinly. “I shall send you his head, along with my compliments, if you give me your word as a samurai to reciprocate.”
“I swear it,” Inoue said, and Shichio knew he had him. These samurai were bullies and butchers, but deadly serious when it came to their honor. They would sooner die in a duel than suffer being called a liar. “Glorious Victory is yours, as soon as I take it from the boy’s dead hands.”
Shichio smirked and finished his tea. “Send me the hands too.”
8
If you want these hands, you can have them, Daigoro thought.
He knelt in the dark not three paces from where Shichio sipped his tea. Only a paper wall separated them. He had only to step through it and he could wrap his fingers around the peacock’s throat. Shichio’s samurai would leap to their lord’s defense, and no doubt Inoue would sit back and let them, but Daigoro had no doubt he could snap a skinny peacock neck before they could take him.
His hands had regained most of their former strength. The left was healing well; none of the cuts had festered. The right was still stiff, but the bones had mended well enough that he would soon be able to wield a sword without pain. And how satisfying that would be, to return Glorious Victory Unsought to his hands. From where he sat, he could cut the wall in half with a single blow. With a second he could separate the peacock’s head from his shoulders. It would hardly matter if Shichio’s men attacked him after that. At least he would go down fighting.
Such an easy thing, to walk three strides and take an enemy’s life. An easy thing, as easy as grasping the moon.
Even if he could hold his odachi, he stood a better chance against Shichio unarmed. His Inazuma blade promised glorious victory, but only to those who did not seek it. And what would be more glorious than to cut down his most hated foe in the face of the father-in-law who would gladly sell him to the enemy? That would be a victory beyond price, and for that reason his sword would never let him claim it.
Yet the very thought of it made his heart race. He shifted silently where he knelt, rising from a seiza position to curl his toes under, pressing the balls of his feet to the floor. In iaido this kneeling posture was a ready stance, and Daigoro started to invent scenarios in which he might be able to pounce. Lord Inoue knew he was hiding behind the shoji. In fact, he was the one to propose this dark little alcove as the perfect place to eavesdrop. What if he betrayed Daigoro’s position? He’d promised he wouldn’t—promised his daughter he wouldn’t, which meant a great deal more than anything he could swear to Daigoro—but Inoue Shigekazu was no true samurai. By birthright he was entitled to the twin swords and topknot, but he did not live by the bushido code. Neither had his father before him, and neither did his sons.
It was his daughter who stayed Daigoro’s hand. He felt her feather-soft palm alight on his forearm, and when he turned to look at her, she pressed her other palm to her belly. She was the love of his life.