thrown into his mouth. They were sharp, and instead of standing like soldiers in an orderly line, they leaned against one another like so many drunks. “Steward!” he called. “Rice. Fish. Cook up some of that southern beef, too, the cut we had last night. Shichio, you’ve got to try this stuff. Nene’s cooks brought it in her baggage train. It’s the best damn thing you’ve ever tasted.”
“My lady is most generous. But Toyotomi-dono, I have given much thought to what some of the officers have been saying. Is it proper for a man of my station to take on his wife’s name in marriage? I am a general after all—”
“But willing to marry Lady Okuma,” Nene said. “Is that not so?”
“It was,” Shichio admitted. He hoped he’d said it without too much of a hiss.
“Aha,” she said. “Is the problem that House Okuma is too small a name for one of my honored husband’s favorite generals? The name Urakami is not so small. They are cousins to House Oda, who are cousins to my own house of Sugaihara. Their shadow stretches back over many hundreds of years.”
Damn this woman, Shichio thought. She’s foreseen my every move. He tried to keep his frustration off his face, with only moderate success. “My lady, I know this sort of concern seems trivial to you. You married a man of common descent despite your own samurai lineage. I daresay that was most foresightful of you, but also most unorthodox. And your husband did not take your name; he forged a name for himself, in the eyes of the emperor and all men.”
“Then can you not do the same?”
That got Shichio’s hackles up, but again he stifled that reaction before it reached his face. “I humbly serve in whatever capacity my lord general asks of me. I do not aspire to follow in his footsteps.”
Nene inclined her head and smiled. It was a tiny movement, but it spoke volumes. Well played, she was telling him. “You have it right. The emperor will not raise you up. But honored husband, is it perhaps within your power . . . ?”
Hashiba turned to her, a quizzical frown crinkling his simian features. “What are you after, Nene?”
She bowed her head, the very picture of a submissive wife. “When Mio Yasumasa passed, you lost a long-serving hatamoto. Now I understand one who is not samurai can never be hatamoto, but perhaps in this case . . . well, General Shichio has been a most loyal servant, neh? Is there no way to reward his devotion?”
Hashiba smiled, revealing those sharp, jagged teeth again. It was little wonder that his enemies called him the Monkey King. Even the great Mio Yasumasa called him that, though only after he’d poured a bottle of whisky into that prodigious belly of his. Shichio still had nightmares about Mio’s death. Those rubbery slabs of flesh flopping to the floor like fish . . . the thought alone was almost enough to make him retch. Shichio would never regret killing him, but he was horrified at the way he’d done it—or rather, at the way the mask made him do it.
Mio had been hatamoto, the highest-ranking bannerman in a daimyo’s service. As Hashiba was the most powerful man in the empire, his hatamoto were the elite of the elite. It was an honor Shichio could not turn down, a fact Nene understood all too well. He could see every step plotted before him, like a condemned man walking to the execution ground. Nene had laid the path. Is it perhaps within your power, she’d said, directing Hashiba to wonder if there was anything he could not do. Is there no way to reward his devotion, she’d asked, making him think about the limits of his largesse. Shichio knew all of her tricks, because they were his tricks too.
Inevitably, Hashiba got to his feet, making himself feel larger. He flicked his hand as if swatting at a mosquito. “If only samurai can be hatamoto, then I will make him samurai. Shichio, kneel before me.”
Dreading what was to come, Shichio did as he was told. Nene stood beside her husband, making it perfectly clear that she stood above Shichio as well. Hashiba removed his wakizashi from his belt, and with great ceremony he presented it to Shichio. Shichio had no choice but to accept it in both hands, and to push it through his own belt where a samurai would wear it. His katana came next. As