"Nothing. Just curious. He died trying to unravel a secret, and I knew he wasn't doing it for himself."
Yoshio had died in the course of duty. His honor was intact.
Jack said, "Did you happen to come across an eighteen-year-old girl in your travels?"
"I saw a man carrying a young woman out of the building."
He looked at the old man. "Dawn."
Hideo did not care about the girl. To restore honor to his family name he needed what the old man was holding.
"I must have the katana."
Jack shook his head. "The owner hired me to find it. He gets first dibs."
"I could make a case for being the rightful owner," the old man said, still holding the katana. "I'm the gaijin who gave Masamune-san the short sword to refashion into something more graceful."
"I kind of suspected that," Jack said.
The old man stared at the blade, then shook his head. "But by the time I returned to pay him and claim it, he was dead and the blade was gone." He shook his head. "Time passes too quickly sometimes."
Hideo glanced at Jack and saw calm acceptance in his expression. Surely the old man was mad—claiming to be seven hundred years old—but the ronin too?
Then again, feeling the old one's presence, he might be telling the truth.
He shook himself. What am I thinking?
"Well," Jack said, "if you didn't pay for it and never took possession, I can make as good a case for you not being the rightful owner."
The old man sighed. "I suppose so."
Hideo looked over at the yakuza. Kenji still knelt, but Ryo lay on his side. Both looked pale and weak and ill. But by applying constant pressure, they had stopped the blood loss from their wrists. They would survive, but they were of no use to him now.
Hideo did something then that he'd never done in his life: He dropped to his knees and folded his hands in supplication.
"Please give me the sword. My family honor depends on it."
Jack's expression hardened. "You and your goons were ready to Swiss-cheese me at Gerrish's place. Instead of gabbing I should be kneecapping you. Shove your family honor, pal."
He bent and picked up the scabbard, then tossed it to the old man.
"We need to get back to the city."
He kicked Kenji's and Ryo's pistols—still gripped in their hands—into the hallway, then did the same with Hideo's.
Without a word, the old man sheathed the sword and handed it to Jack, then walked out of the room. The ronin followed, leaving Hideo on his knees.
"Don't do anything stupid."
Hideo rose on wobbly legs. He had failed Sasaki-san. He could not return without the katana. And he could not stay here.
He staggered out into the hall. The ronin and the old man had disappeared into the smoke but he heard their footsteps on the stairway. He found his pistol and hefted it. His first impulse was to stick the barrel in his mouth and pull the trigger. But he didn't know if he could do that.
Perhaps later he would find out, but as for now…
He hurried for the stairs. He would have the katana or die trying.
He was down the first flight and rounding the bend when he came to a sudden stop as he felt something jab against his chest. The ronin stood before him with the muzzle of his pistol pressed over Hideo's heart.
"I warned you about being stupid."
Hideo's pistol was down, against his thigh. He began to raise it.
"Don't," the ronin said. "Your brother was a good guy, a brave man. I'm sure you're just as brave, and I know you think you're doing what you have to do, and I respect that, but you're trading brave for stupid now. Do that and this can end only one way."
Hideo didn't stop the upward movement of his weapon. Honor demanded he resolve this, one way or another.
He heard a sudden, almost deafening sound as something smashed into his chest, half turning his body as it tumbled backward. He landed on his shoulder, then flopped onto his back where he stared at the cracked ceiling and listened to the death cries of his punctured heart.
"Aw, jeez," he heard the ronin say. "Why'd he have to do that?"
The old man said, "I think he was using you to do something he couldn't do himself."
"Swell."
The voices faded away, the ceiling faded to black, quickly followed by everything else.
Shiro had been drifting in a twilight of consciousness, vaguely aware that he should be up and doing something… but not knowing what… and even if he knew, he lacked the will to rouse himself from the twilight.
And then he started at the sound of a shot and came fully awake.
Raising his head sparked an explosion of pain, and with it the memory of what had happened.
… cutting the throat of the man with the sword… the katana tumbling away into the smoke… the pistol pointed at his face… ducking… the crushing impact against his head…
He struggled to his hands and knees, then, using the nearest wall for support, made it to his feet. His eyes stung from the smoke. He coughed, sending another jolt of pain through his head. He touched his scalp and felt the wet, congealing blood there. He did not know how badly he was wounded and did not have time to worry about himself.
Where were his brothers of the Order, where was the sound of battle?
He stumbled down the hallway in a fruitless search for the katana, going from room to room, finding dead brother monks in some, others slumped on the floor, and flames… flames coming from the scroll room.
"Sensei!"
He hurried toward the room and found much of it aflame. The scrolls—destroyed, gone forever. Holding an arm across his face, he braved the heat and stepped inside. Where—?
He found Akechi-sensei on the floor, and gagged when he saw the ghastly wounds where his limbs had been severed from his body, his belly opened. He fought the urge to drop to his knees and sob and die alongside his teacher.