Doubt nagged at Tora’s confidence. Could the man be really as good as his reputation? There had been all those certificates in his trunk. Matsue had received formal training and had proved himself to be an expert in the art. Except for a few pitiful tricks he had adapted from stick fighting, all of Tora’s experience came from fighting and killing. He wished he had not bragged to poor Kinjiro about his tricks. When it came right down to it, he had none—just a burning desire to rid the world of this man.

Tora went into his attack. A few feints and lunges and he caused Matsue to bound backward a few paces. Pleased, Tora took advantage of this to adjust his position so he no longer had the light in his eyes and could read Matsue’s expression. Much depended on recognizing the moment of attack in his opponent’s eyes an instant before it happened.

Matsue had not tried to stop him, and a flicker of the other man’s eyes explained why. Tora now had the open doors to the veranda at his back, and Matsue planned to drive him backward until he stumbled off the veranda and fell into the small garden below. There he would impale Tora as he floun dered on the gravel like a beached fish. Perversely, Tora gained new confidence from this: It was good to know the other man’s mind.

And then Matsue attacked. He came with an enormous roar: “H-o-o-o-o-u!” Tora waited, watching the pointed blade coming toward him, feeling the vibration of the other man’s pounding steps in the soles of his feet. He waited until he saw in Matsue’s face the dawning realization that Tora was not retreating, that he might kill him then and there, watched him adjust his grip to the new target, firming and aiming his sword differently, saw the triumph of the kill light up Matsue’s eyes just before he put all his power into the final lunge.

And then Tora stepped aside.

It was a very small step. They were so close that he felt the blade brush his arm, smelled Matsue’s hot breath as he shot past him, heard his feet hit the veranda floor, and turned to deliver the fatal stroke to his enemy.

But Matsue had not gone over the edge to fall prone on the gravel. He had leapt down instead, landing on his feet, and he instantly swung into another charge. Propelled by the fury of having fallen for a child’s trick, he bounded back onto the veranda in one great leap. Tora could not stop the speed of this onslaught and moved aside again. But this time, Matsue had known what he would do and slashed at Tora’s leg. He was past and back in the center of the room before Tora felt the burning pain and the hot blood trickling down his thigh. He had no time to check the wound, but knew that the blood loss would weaken him quickly and make the floor slippery underfoot. The odds had changed again.

It was very still in the room. Tora could hear his breathing and that of Matsue, an occasional rustle of fabric, and the sound of their bare feet sliding across the floor as they moved and counter-moved, seeking the right place and moment to strike. Tora began to inch toward Matsue, keeping his eyes on the other’s face. Matsue feinted toward the left—Tora had guessed it from the flicker of Matsue’s eyes and ignored it—and then Matsue lunged toward the right, where he expected Tora to be. Only Tora had by then moved the other way, raised his sword, and brought it down with a hiss of air and a shout drawn deep from his belly.

There was a clatter, a grunt, and Matsue backed away, staring at the bleeding stump that had been his sword hand. His sword lay on the floor, in a splatter of blood and severed fingers. With a roar, he tried to snatch at the sword with his left hand, but Tora put his foot on it and placed the tip of his blade at Matsue’s neck.

“It’s over,” he said, almost sadly. “You’ll never fight again.”

Matsue slowly sank to his knees. His face worked dreadfully. “So kill me and be done,” he shouted hoarsely.

“Not yet. Did you kill Tomoe?”

Matsue gave a bitter laugh. “A swordsman doesn’t dirty his blade on women. Only scum does that.” He looked up at Tora with a frown. “What are you waiting for? Kill me. I fought honorably. I deserve an honorable death by the sword.” He paused and pointed. “By that sword.”

“Maybe you fought honorably this time, but you didn’t the last time.”

“That was no fight. I was teaching you a lesson about respecting your betters.”

Killing Matsue might save trouble in the long run, but Tora believed now that Matsue had not killed Tomoe. Besides, he hated killing a defeated man. Matsue was finished as a fighter, and since that part of his life mattered more to him than anything else, he was punished enough. Perhaps he might bleed to death, but if he bandaged his arm tightly and found a doctor at this time of night in a city full of smallpox, he would live. Either way, he was no longer a threat.

Tora scooped up the fallen sword and broke it between two boards of the veranda. The hilt he flung as far as he could over the adjoining wall. Then he went to look for Kinjiro and the old man. To his surprised relief, the boy had disappeared. That meant he was alive and not badly hurt. More relief washed over Tora when he found Chikamura hiding in a corner. The old man peered up at him from under his bedding and whispered, “Is it over?”

“Yes. Where did the boy go?”

“He ran away.”

Matsue still sat motionless, perhaps waiting to die. Tora called, “Kinjiro?” but got no answer. The boy was probably far away by now. The events of this day had been enough to give a grown man nightmares. Suddenly Tora felt alone and exhausted. His knees threatened to buckle and he sat down heavily on the edge of the veranda.

The moon had risen and the night was no longer so black. In the distance a temple bell rang. Only a few hours ago they had sought refuge in the temple, and Tora had pretended he was Kinjiro’s father. What would become of the youngster now?

A sharp female voice broke into his brooding. “Hey, you rascal. What’s going on? Who knocked down my wall? Where’s Chikamura?”

Tora looked around wildly and realized that the voice had come from the other side of the garden wall. Someone was in the yard.

Then came Kinjiro’s voice, in a loud whisper. “Sssh! It was an accident. Don’t worry. It’ll be fixed.” Kinjiro sounded nervous.

“I don’t believe you. Come here.”

Kinjiro squealed.

With a muttered curse, Tora jumped up and ran back into the room. Matsue had not moved. His eyes were closed, and he was white from shock or loss of blood. Old Chikamura was sitting up. Tora cried, “Keep an eye on him and call me if he tries anything,” then dashed down the corridor.

In the moonlit yard, he found a large woman who stood with her back to him and had a grip on Kinjiro’s ear. When the boy saw Tora, his face brightened. He cried, “Make her let go of me.”

The woman gave her prey a sharp and painful shake and rasped, “You won’t fool me with that old trick, you little bastard. I’m past putting up with you lying, thieving rogues over here. I want to see Chikamura now.”

Tora hid his sword behind his back and cleared his throat.

She let go then and swung around to glare at him. “So there’s more of you bastards. I’m not afraid of you either.” Advancing on Tora, she said defiantly, “Come on, you big villain, I dare you lay a hand on me.”

Tora stepped back quickly. “No, no, madam, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not with those crooks. The boy and I came to free the old man. His nephew locked him in the storehouse and left him to die.”

She looked from him to the open door of the storehouse. The broken lock and empty water bowl seemed to convince her, but she was still suspicious. “The boy’s one of them,” she said, shooting a venomous glance at Kinjiro, who was rubbing his ear and sticking out his tongue at her. “I want to see Chikamura.”

Before Tora could answer, a weak shout came from inside the house. “Look,” he pleaded, “that was Chikamura. He isn’t well. I’ve got to go.”