Only a Shadow by Steve Bein Page A

your weight and mine,
neh
?” said Jujiro. The boy nodded.
    With a quick tug on both ends of the rope, Jujiro made the knot pop open. “And yet it cannot,
neh
?” He passed the rope across the table. “Tie the same knot. Then tell me why it can support your weight and mine, and why an old man like me can pull it apart so easily.”
    Tadanao took the rope in both hands, bowing slightly as he accepted it, and tied the knot quickly and efficiently. He
is
bright, Jujiro thought. He retains what he sees, and needs only to see it once.
    â€œWeighted slowly,” the boy said, pulling on both ends of the rope with gradual pressure, “the knot will hold. But weighted quickly, the knot will unravel itself.”
    He jerked on the ends to demonstrate. His face belied his surprise, for the knot did not loosen in the slightest. He gave a hard jerk, then a harder one, and at last the knot popped open, leaving a straight length of rope in its place. “You’re stronger than you look, Iga-sama.”
    At last the honorific, Jujiro thought. He is bright
and
bold. Good qualities in a
shinobi
. But he respects ability, not seniority. Does he have enough wisdom to respect wisdom?
    â€œNow the third test,” Old Jujiro said. “The table you see before me once belonged to a great daimyo. He won it fighting the Koreans, and brought it back from across the sea.”
    Jujiro watched the boy’s eyes as they took in the table: its low, broad, inky black surface, reflective as a still pond; its curving black legs; the mother-of-pearl inlays adorning the front. Did he pause for a moment on the pinhole he was seated before? Did he guess what was behind it? If so, his eyes lingered for less than a heartbeat.
    â€œIt became the daimyo's favorite heirloom, Tada-san. He took every meal at it, and had it placed beside his bed it every night. It weighs as much as I do, and it cannot be taken apart without irreparable harm. How would you steal it from his crowded palace?”
    Tadanao bowed low. “Perhaps the question should be, ‘How did
you
steal it from his palace?’”
    â€œSo you have heard the story.”
    â€œOnly that you were the one who stole it. But I’ve put much thought into how you might have done it.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œYou built a duplicate.”
    Jujiro allowed himself a small smile. “Did I?”
    â€œYou must have. You concealed the duplicate poorly in a wagon, and you arranged for the wagon to be seen as the daimyo returned from some errand. The daimyo gave chase, along with all his men, and you were free to carry his table out the front door.”
    â€œNot bad.” Old Jujiro smiled again. “You’ve passed every test save the one I cannot give you, Tada-san. You are patient, quick-witted, creative, and insightful. The question that remains is whether you know when to double-cross—and, more importantly, when not to.”
    Tadanao cocked his head, looking at him through the corners of his eyes. “Do you mean to suggest that I would double-cross
you
, sir?”
    Again the honorific, Jujiro thought. “Why wouldn’t you?”
    â€œYou are a legend, Iga-sama. I heard stories of you from the moment the clan took me in. For a long time I wanted to
be
you.”
    Old Jujiro nodded. “The clan would be very fortunate indeed to have a good
shinobi
who knows when not to double-cross. You would be lucky to know it, and I would be lucky if you knew it too: I do not relish the thought of facing so young an enemy.”
    He placed his wrinkled hands on the smooth lacquered tabletop. “Now then, have you heard of the Tiger on the Mountain?”
    â€œI have,” said the boy. “It is a
katana
, made by the master Inazuma if the stories are true.”
    â€œThey are. What do you know of the Inazuma blades?”
    There it was again: that tiny, fleeting narrowing of the eyes. The boy didn’t care for having his