Free Year of the Demon by Steve Bein Page A

had been prepared for many more guests than Tomo, Katsushima, and himself. Low tables ran the perimeter of the room, each one bedecked with chopsticks, a bowl for pickles, another for soup, another for rice, a space left for where the fish platters would be served, and a little bizen teacup. Daigoro supposed it was actually a mercy that his guests had left in a huff. Were they present, he would have been obliged to bottle up his suffering during their meal. As it was, Tomo could get straight to resetting his broken finger bones.
    He winced and bit down hard, eyes watering, as Tomo pried the last of the fragments into place. “Terribly sorry, sir,” Tomo said, looking up with a compassionate smile. In truth Daigoro could not recall a time when he had not seen Tomo smiling. Fever, dog bites, even typhoons, nothing could sour his expression. He’d probably even smile if someone rammed a dagger in his chest. It was his way of dealing with the world’s tribulations, and in that sense he and Tomo weren’t so different. As a born samurai, Daigoro was expected to hide any pain or dismay behind a mask of equanimity. Tomo was lowborn, yet took refuge in his smile just as Daigoro took refuge in feigned serenity.
    Daigoro blushed, ashamed that he’d allowed his mask to fall. Tomo finished with the fingers, binding them between thin strips of bamboo. It hurt like Fudo himself was crushing them with his great red teeth, but Daigoro managed to keep his mask on. “Thank you, Tomo. I believe you’ve saved my hand.”
    “It’s nothing, sir.”
    “Good night.”
    “Good night, Okuma-dono.”
    Daigoro watched as the potter’s boy took his leave, keeping close to the walls to avoid the heavy raindrops that still drummed against the outermost edge of the veranda. They hammered the clay tiles of the teahouse roof so steadily that it was difficult to hear anything else.
    “So,” Katsushima said over the rain. “Today could have gone better.”
    Daigoro chuckled, his spirits as dark and damp as the night. “Do you think so? I was hoping the rumor that my mother bested Samanosuke would spread like wildfire. Just think how everyone will fear the Okumas if their unarmed women can defeat swordsmen.”
    Katsushima groaned. “What happened there? Why was she even out of her bedroom?”
    “What does it matter? The damage is done.”
    “What are you going to do about it?”
    “I’ve dismissed all of her attendants, of course. At least her chamberlain had the good graces to spare me from making a proper example of him. He was a good man, and I shouldn’t have liked to execute him at all. He was sensible enough to retire to the orchard and throw himself off the cliff.”
    “I wasn’t asking about the attendants.”
    “Yes,” Daigoro said with a sigh. “My mother. Obviously she’ll be kept under watch until we can find more competent replacements.”
    “No,” Katsushima said. Daigoro heard a distinctly chiding tone in his voice. “Your pressing problem is the Soras. And soon enough the Inoues. When do they come?”
    Daigoro’s shoulders sank. “In less than a week. Not nearly enough time to patch things over with the Soras. And as bullies go, I’m told Lord Sora pales in comparison to Lord Inoue. I’ve spoiled everything, Katsushima. How did my father ever manage to keep these people in line?”
    “You haven’t spoiled everything. The Soras did leave two of their famed yoroi as a gesture of goodwill.”
    “That was none of my doing. They gave us those before we even sat down to tea. And I’m going to need a lot more than two breastplates if I’m to buy peace with the Inoues.”
    Daigoro looked out at the raindrops spattering the faces of every puddle in the courtyard. “It looks like Izu is going to drown tonight, Katsushima, but the truth is this place is more like a field of dry grass. It only takes a spark to start a wildfire, and this damned rivalry between the Soras and Inoues is sending sparks flying everywhere.”