Momoko was used to actors, who tended to be self-involved and vain. This samurai seemed to have no pretensions, and she could tell that her close scrutiny of him made him uncomfortable, not puffed up with the pride men sometimes had when they were attractive to women.
“I, ah, I’ll come back later, when you’re done with your discussion.” She addressed this to Goro and Hanzo, but her eyes were fixed on Kaze. She turned and went back to the stage and the backstage area behind the curtain.
When she left, Kaze said, “Tell me, is there a back entrance to the theater?”
“No, Samurai-san.” Goro looked surprised. “Why do you ask?”
“I am interested in the Little Flower Whorehouse, which is on the opposite side of this block.”
“Are you, ah, a patron of that place, Samurai-san?” Goro was being discreet, at least for him.
“No,” Kaze said. “But I am interested in seeing how its building is laid out.”
Goro found the samurai’s interest in the architecture of a whorehouse peculiar, but he had already found this particular samurai different from others of his ilk, and he didn’t pry.
Have you found this Matsuyama Kaze yet?” Yoshida looked at his chief captain, Niiya, with a scowl.
“No, Lord, we have not. We are searching everywhere. If he is in Edo, we will find him.”
“Do you understand how important it is that we find him?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“It is a task that the Shogun himself has given me, Niiya. If I do it properly, other important tasks will follow. With Nakamura-san gone, there is no natural successor for the Shogun’s favor. Others understand this, and many daimyo are now trying to bring themselves to Ieyasu-sama’s attention. If I bring the Shogun the head of this Matsuyama Kaze, then my place in the new government will be assured. Do you understand what that means?”
“Yes, Yoshida-sama.”
“Good. Have each district captain talk to every gambler, merchant, and entertainer. This Matsuyama Kaze is staying someplace in Edo, and someone must know about it. Do it quietly, however. This man will be hard to kill, and it will be easier if we can do it with surprise. Spread the gold around. Don’t be stingy. Tell them that there is a thousand-ryo reward just for information about where he is. Tell them there’s a ten-thousand-ryo reward if they bring us his head.”
“Ten thousand ryo?” Niiya actually gasped.
“Yes. I have a golden opportunity to place myself in Ieyasu’s favor, and I won’t let mere money stand in the way of that opportunity. Someone will tell us where he is if the reward is big enough.”
“Yes, Yoshida-sama!”
Okubo’s hands trembled with excitement. He looked at the sword merchant. “If this is not genuine, it will go hard with you,” he said.
The merchant masked his feelings and simply continued unwrapping the object. He unfolded the cloth and revealed the daito, the extra long sword, twice as long as a regular katana. It was normally used from horseback, but it could also be used on foot by a man who had trained with it. “I assure you, Okubo-sama, that it is a genuine Muramasa blade. Finding any sword made by Muramasa is getting extremely difficult, and finding the long-bladed kind favored by you, great Lord, is almost impossible. As you know, the Tokugawas destroy Muramasa blades whenever they can. The blades made by Muramasa have a special enmity for the house of Tokugawa, even though Muramasa blades were made at least two hundred years ago. Ieyasu-sama’s grandfather, Kiyoyasu, was killed by a Muramasa blade. Both Ieyasu-sama and his father were hurt by Muramasa blades. And when Ieyasu ordered his son Nobuyasu to commit suicide because he suspected his loyalty, a Muramasa blade was used to remove his head.”
“I know of this history,” Okubo said curtly. Now it was his turn to mask his feelings. It was precisely this enmity toward the Tokugawas, not the fine craftsmanship, that caused Okubo to covet a blade made by the master swordsmith Muramasa.
The man took a piece of tissue and used it to hold the sword’s scabbard. Using another piece of tissue to hold the sword’s hilt, he slowly removed the sword a small way from the scabbard and moved it about, letting the light play off the polished surface of the blade. There was a protocol for a formal sword viewing, and the man followed it exactly, removing the blade slightly more and once again showing its beauty. He never completely removed the blade from the scabbard, because it would be an impolite gesture to have a totally naked blade in the presence of a daimyo.
Okubo reached out and took the sword from the merchant. He touched the sword’s hilt directly, not using the tissue. If he touched the actual blade, he would use a tissue, but for now he just wanted to get a feel for the blade and its weight.
“I can feel the power of this sword,” Okubo said in wonder, more to himself than to the merchant. He drew the blade out from its scabbard. There was no convention of politeness that prohibited a daimyo from showing a naked blade before a merchant. Only when in the presence of another daimyo or the Shogun himself was a daimyo prohibited from drawing a sword.
“I, ah …” The merchant looked uncomfortable.
“What is it?”
“Well, Okubo-sama, you have already noted the unusual power found within Muramasa blades. They hunger for blood. But, great Lord, I would not feel comfortable unless I warned you that this power can have an effect on the owner of the blade, as well as the blade’s victims. Muramasa blades have been known to drive their owners to rash action. They have been the ruin of more than one owner, and some swear they are unlucky. They have even been known to, ah, drive owners to madness.”
Noting the look on Okubo’s face, the merchant hastily added, “I have no fears selling this blade to a man of such exceptional strength and character as yourself, of course.”
Okubo returned the sword to its scabbard. “My head of household will pay you,” Okubo said.
“Thank you, Okubo-sama! Thank you.” The merchant placed his hands on the tatami mat and bowed until his head touched the mat. Okubo waved the merchant away. When the man left the room, Okubo took the sword out of its scabbard and placed it before him. The polished blade gleamed with a cold malevolence. He stared at the long ribbon of steel. He could feel the hate and death radiating off the surface, filling the room with insanity. With such a blade, one could bring to closure a lifetime of enmity. One could aspire to any height, achieve any aim. One could even become Shogun.
Okubo shook his head, as if recovering from a dream. Perhaps he was already insane, he thought, daring to think thoughts that were forbidden and deadly.
Honda was also staring at something, but in this case he felt no power emanating from it. It was a simple, earthenware teacup filled with the frothy, bitter brew that resulted when tea was prepared in the formal way.
“Is something wrong, Honda-sama?”
Honda looked sharply at his companion, the man who had prepared the tea with nonchalant elegance. He was too sensitive to the moods of the people around him to make a man like Honda feel really safe in his presence.
“No, nothing,” Honda said gruffly.
But, of course, there was something wrong. What he was engaged in went against his entire life. He was a rough warrior, and offering his life and services to the Tokugawas was the twin star that guided his actions. Now he was doing something that made him feel embarrassed and ashamed. Yet, with the changing order of Japan, he believed that he had to do this, and that he would have to change, too.
The Gods knew that Ieyasu-sama had changed. Honda was with Ieyasu almost from the beginning, when Ieyasu was a youth scratching to retain control of his own fief, buffeted by more powerful daimyo on all sides of him. Initially, Ieyasu had been cautious to a fault. They even invented a proverb about Ieyasu, “tapping on a stone bridge,” to show his extreme caution in all things. He knew his limitations and refused to exceed them.