thumb and forefinger and bent down close enough to kiss him. “Tell me about the monk,” he whispered. “Tell me about the house of Okuma.”
6
T he challenger’s bokken smashed across the knuckles of Daigoro’s right hand. Daigoro backed away, but the pain did not. As his challenger circled him, Daigoro flexed the top two fingers experimentally. Pain shot through them as if they were made of broken glass. Two broken bones, maybe more. He’d have to wait until the end of the duel to be sure.
Daigoro limped to his right, mirroring his opponent’s movement. Sora Samanosuke was a cagey fighter. He retreated more often than he advanced and he feinted more often than striking true. The tip of his sword fluttered like a hummingbird. Daigoro knocked it aside, chopped down at the wrists, but Sora backed away. Daigoro lunged, pressing his opponent back, trying to catch him on his heels. Sora circled. Daigoro’s sword chopped high, aiming for the temple. Sora parried and cut low.
His bokken struck just above the knee. Daigoro felt his leg buckle and could only roll into the fall.
“Point, Sora,” said Katsushima Goemon. In that very instant he was in the center of the courtyard, separating the two opponents. The sheer speed of his movement drew a gasp from Daigoro. Half a heartbeat earlier, Katsushima had been kneeling in the judge’s position, yet despite the gray in his topknot and bushy sideburns, he moved as swiftly as any bird of prey. Even on the best of days, it took Daigoro the space of several breaths to rise from kneeling.
Today was not the best of days. Pain burned like a torch in his right hand, and of course his right leg was no help. Even at birth it was skinnier than either of his arms, and now with only one good hand and one good leg, it was just another weight he had to move to get himself back to standing.
The sand of the courtyard was warm under his palm. The wind made the trees whisper on all sides of the Okuma compound, and a dust devil whirled in one corner of the compound’s weathered wooden walls. Daigoro could smell the salt of the ocean on the breeze, and the promise of spring rain, though the only clouds were far toward the horizon. On the opposite side of the courtyard sat Lord Sora, resplendent in his yellow kimono and bright orange haori . His long white beard swayed in the breeze as he regarded the combatants, and suddenly Daigoro felt ashamed of his sand-dusted hakama .
At length Daigoro managed to get to his feet, and with his wooden sword trembling in the two usable fingers of his right hand, he bowed to Sora Samanosuke. The champion of the Sora clan returned the bow and both fighters retired to their sides of the courtyard, Daigoro limping and Sora all but floating. He’d been the underdog, and now his chest swelled with pride.
“What have I told you about patience?” Katsushima said as Daigoro lowered himself to a kneeling position. “You mustn’t press a fighter who wants to be pressed. You’re letting him draw you off your guard.”
Daigoro opened his mouth to respond, then bit down hard as ice-cold spikes of pain lanced through his right hand. He looked down to see Tomo, his baby-faced retainer, peeling his fingers away from his bokken ’s grip. Tomo looked up, his ever-present smile bending into a wince. “I’m so sorry, Okuma-dono. Setting the bones is best done quickly.”
Daigoro wondered how a simple potter’s boy could know that. But he could also imagine the pain Tomo would have inflicted by taking his time in straightening the fingers. Better to do it as Tomo had done: swiftly, in one go. Daigoro fought down a wave of nausea and tried to center his concentration somewhere else— anywhere else, anywhere other than his hand.
“I cannot understand you,” Katsushima said, his tone sharper than it should have been. He might have been thirty years’ Daigoro’s senior, but Daigoro was the lord of the house. Then again, Katsushima had sworn no oaths to House
6
T he challenger’s bokken smashed across the knuckles of Daigoro’s right hand. Daigoro backed away, but the pain did not. As his challenger circled him, Daigoro flexed the top two fingers experimentally. Pain shot through them as if they were made of broken glass. Two broken bones, maybe more. He’d have to wait until the end of the duel to be sure.
Daigoro limped to his right, mirroring his opponent’s movement. Sora Samanosuke was a cagey fighter. He retreated more often than he advanced and he feinted more often than striking true. The tip of his sword fluttered like a hummingbird. Daigoro knocked it aside, chopped down at the wrists, but Sora backed away. Daigoro lunged, pressing his opponent back, trying to catch him on his heels. Sora circled. Daigoro’s sword chopped high, aiming for the temple. Sora parried and cut low.
His bokken struck just above the knee. Daigoro felt his leg buckle and could only roll into the fall.
“Point, Sora,” said Katsushima Goemon. In that very instant he was in the center of the courtyard, separating the two opponents. The sheer speed of his movement drew a gasp from Daigoro. Half a heartbeat earlier, Katsushima had been kneeling in the judge’s position, yet despite the gray in his topknot and bushy sideburns, he moved as swiftly as any bird of prey. Even on the best of days, it took Daigoro the space of several breaths to rise from kneeling.
Today was not the best of days. Pain burned like a torch in his right hand, and of course his right leg was no help. Even at birth it was skinnier than either of his arms, and now with only one good hand and one good leg, it was just another weight he had to move to get himself back to standing.
The sand of the courtyard was warm under his palm. The wind made the trees whisper on all sides of the Okuma compound, and a dust devil whirled in one corner of the compound’s weathered wooden walls. Daigoro could smell the salt of the ocean on the breeze, and the promise of spring rain, though the only clouds were far toward the horizon. On the opposite side of the courtyard sat Lord Sora, resplendent in his yellow kimono and bright orange haori . His long white beard swayed in the breeze as he regarded the combatants, and suddenly Daigoro felt ashamed of his sand-dusted hakama .
At length Daigoro managed to get to his feet, and with his wooden sword trembling in the two usable fingers of his right hand, he bowed to Sora Samanosuke. The champion of the Sora clan returned the bow and both fighters retired to their sides of the courtyard, Daigoro limping and Sora all but floating. He’d been the underdog, and now his chest swelled with pride.
“What have I told you about patience?” Katsushima said as Daigoro lowered himself to a kneeling position. “You mustn’t press a fighter who wants to be pressed. You’re letting him draw you off your guard.”
Daigoro opened his mouth to respond, then bit down hard as ice-cold spikes of pain lanced through his right hand. He looked down to see Tomo, his baby-faced retainer, peeling his fingers away from his bokken ’s grip. Tomo looked up, his ever-present smile bending into a wince. “I’m so sorry, Okuma-dono. Setting the bones is best done quickly.”
Daigoro wondered how a simple potter’s boy could know that. But he could also imagine the pain Tomo would have inflicted by taking his time in straightening the fingers. Better to do it as Tomo had done: swiftly, in one go. Daigoro fought down a wave of nausea and tried to center his concentration somewhere else— anywhere else, anywhere other than his hand.
“I cannot understand you,” Katsushima said, his tone sharper than it should have been. He might have been thirty years’ Daigoro’s senior, but Daigoro was the lord of the house. Then again, Katsushima had sworn no oaths to House
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