Year of the Demon by Steve Bein Page A

get it.”
    “And perhaps conduct other business while they’re here,” Daigoro said, filling in the rest. “Like flooding the house of any upstart lordling who defied his will.”
    “It makes no sense,” Akiko said. She studied the letter again, as if she hoped to find some explanation that hadn’t been written there before. “Why should a daimyo halfway across the empire want this man killed?”
    “I don’t know,” Daigoro said, but in truth he had no attention to spare for that particular riddle. He had questions of his own to answer. How had so much gone so wrong in so little time? His father had managed the squabbling lords of Izu for decades without mishap. Now, just a year after his death, Izu was fraying at the edges and the Okumas had drawn the ire of the most powerful warlord the islands had ever seen. Daigoro cursed himself. This was not the path his father had laid out for him. If Glorious Victory Unsought was too heavy for him to wield, leadership of the clan was heavy enough to crush him like an insect.
    He could almost feel his father’s mantle hanging on him, a stone yoke pressing down on his shoulders and straining his heart. His bones ached under the weight of it. His only goal was to protect his clan and preserve their honor, and his every decision had achieved just the opposite.
    “I cannot understand your hesitation,” Katsushima said. “The right path is clear.”
    “It’s anything but,” said Daigoro. “Do you really expect me to ride up the hill and murder an innocent man?”
    “Of course.”
    Akiko let out a little gasp. A tiny, distant part of Daigoro’s mind wondered at the difference between true samurai and those whose families maintained the station but not the code. Akiko had a fierce heart, to be sure, and Daigoro grew fonder and fonder of her by the day, but her father was a craven who hid behind his walls, just like his father before him. Inoue Shigekazu was a potent ally, but never on the battlefield. Clearly he’d never spoken of killing and dying as Katsushima spoke of it, or else Akiko would not have reacted as she did.
    It was enough for Daigoro that her father had his spies and informants—and, of course, his topknot. Had the Inoues not been samurai, marrying Akiko would never have crossed Daigoro’s mind. As well marry a pine tree as marry a peasant. The very concept didn’t exist, at least not in the true samurai’s mind. Katsushima was one of those. Daigoro’s father had been too, and it was Daigoro’s sole aspiration to become one himself. But in this case he could not emulate his new mentor.
    “Katsushima-san, this is not the honorable path. I cannot agree with you.”
    “And I cannot fathom how your morality can prevent you from doing the right thing.” It was clear in his tone that his patience was fading fast. “Why are you afraid to do what is necessary?”
    “And why are you so bold as to speak to my husband that way?” Akiko was back on her feet. “You are a servant of this house!”
    For his part, Katsushima showed admirable reserve—or else Akiko’s outburst made his dwindling patience seem admirable by comparison. He only looked up at Akiko, who, since she stood on the veranda and he stood in the garden, loomed over him like a giant—but one made of flower petals, as far as Katsushima was concerned.
    Daigoro touched Akiko gently on the hand. “He is no servant. He stays because he is welcome to stay, and because he chooses to. I count him as a friend and a counselor, but Katsushima-san has never sworn an oath to my banner.”
    “Nor will I,” said Katsushima. “But if you ask me to, I will ride to Katto-ji and return before sundown with the old man’s head in a sack. If you would not have your own men spill his blood, send me.”
    “And if I don’t send you? Will you do it of your own accord?”
    Katsushima did not need to think about it for long. “No. The decision is yours. I will not make it for you.”
    Daigoro nodded,