They ate as they walked: the food brought the saliva back into his mouth and he began to feel a little better. Sometime after midday they began to climb again. The fields around them were terraced steeply, tiny patches of earth cut out from the stony ground. The sun vanished early behind the mountains; they came quickly into the deep shade of the east-facing slope. Shigeru looked back briefly at the far side, which was still bathed in light and warmth. Between the bamboo groves and the cultivated fields there was no sign of any buildings: he wondered why the villagers had not built dwellings on that slope to take advantage of the longer hours of sunlight-some ancient tradition or superstition, no doubt.

They climbed a little farther and rounded a rocky outcrop; at that moment he realized the inhabitants of this valley had priorities other than afternoon warmth. Between the rocks and the cliff face, a massive log gate had been erected; it stood open now, but once closed, it would seal off the hamlet inside. They passed through the entrance, the Fox greeting the guards who sat beside it-powerful young men who looked more like warriors than farmers-and Shigeru found himself in what might have been a village, except that there were no wooden dwellings. The cliff here had been hollowed out, and these villagers lived in caves. There seemed to be ten or so, each with wooden doors and shutters, which all stood open on this mild afternoon of early summer; there was even a shrine, recognizable by its vermilion bird-perch-shaped gate. Women sat outside, preparing food, washing vegetables in the spring water that had been channeled into cisterns. The Fox went to one of these and brought water back in a bamboo dipper. Shigeru rinsed his mouth and hands, and then drank deeply. The water was cool and soft from the limestone.

“What is this place?”

“Somewhere you can hide and rest for a few days.”

“I have no intention of resting,” Shigeru said. “I must get to Hagi as soon as possible.”

“Well, we’ll talk about that later. Come inside. We’ll have something to eat and then sleep for a while.” The Fox saw Shigeru’s impatient expression and laughed. “You may not need to rest, but I do!”

In fact, he showed no sign of fatigue, and Shigeru was sure the man could go for another week without sleep if he had to. He realized the fever was subsiding momentarily: he was thinking more clearly. He wondered if he was now a prisoner, if he would be allowed to walk out past the guards or if he would be held here until Sadamu’s men came for him: presumably the Tribe would demand a huge payment in return-for he had fallen into the hands of the Tribe: he had no doubt about that. The Fox was no spirit but a man with the astonishing abilities of the Tribe that his father had described to him.

He was both appalled and fascinated: ever since the conversation with his father, when he had learned of the existence of his older brother, he had kept in the back of his mind the idea that one day he would find out more about the Tribe and about his father’s lost son. There seemed something preordained about this meeting: the man had even brought Jato to him. He glanced at the Fox-surely it could not be him?

A woman came from the dark interior of the cave and greeted them familiarly on the threshold.

“What brings you here, Kenji?”

“Just escorting my companion home.” He did not mention who his companion was.

“Sir.” She acknowledged Shigeru casually. “What happened to his head?”

Her eyes ran over Shigeru and he felt she took in everything about him, including the sword.

“Just an accident,” the Fox, whose name was Kenji, replied.

“Cut yourself shaving, did you?” she said, glancing at Jato and then at Kenji’s long sword. Her eyebrows went up.

Kenji shook his head slightly. “Is there anything to eat?” he asked. “It’s been three days.”

“No wonder you both look half dead. There’s eggs and rice, fern shoots, mushrooms.”

“That’ll do. And bring tea now.”

“Wine too?”

“Good idea.” Kenji grunted. “And speaking of shaving-bring hot water and a sharp knife.” He addressed Shigeru. “We’ll take off your beard and find some other clothes. Anyone can see from your features that you are Otori, but it will make you a little less recognizable.”

They squatted down on their heels outside. A few hens were scratching in the dirt, and two children appeared and stared at them until Kenji addressed them teasingly and they giggled and ran away. The woman returned with a bowl of hot water, and Shigeru washed his face in it, then allowed the Fox to shave away the small beard with a knife blade of extreme sharpness. When they were finished, the woman brought rags-the remnants of old clothes-to wipe face and hands before they went inside.

It was dark and smoky within the cave, but there was a raised area for sleeping and sitting, and the straw matting was relatively clean. The woman brought bowls of tea; it was fresh and of surprisingly high quality for such a small, isolated village-but of course this was no ordinary village, Shigeru thought as he sipped the steaming liquid, grateful for the tea but apprehensive about the rest of the situation. He comforted himself with the fact that he still had his weapons. While he had them, he could defend himself or take his own life.

Kenji said suddenly, “How old are you?”

He used a familiar form of speech that took Shigeru by surprise, for he had never been so addressed in his life, not even by Kiyoshige. Don’t think of Kiyoshige now.

“I turned eighteen this year.” And Kiyoshige seventeen.

“Matsuda’s training obviously worked.”

“You remember our previous meeting, then?”

“Luckily, as it turns out. I knew who to deliver the sword to.”

The warmth from the tea, and from the fire, made sweat prickle again on Shigeru’s forehead and in his armpits.

“Did my father give it to you? Did you see him die?”

“Yes, I did. He fought bravely enough to the last, but he was outnumbered and surrounded.”

“Who killed him?”

“I don’t know his name-one of Iida’s warriors.”

How strange if this man were indeed Shigemori’s son. “How old are you?” Shigeru questioned.

“I am twenty-six.”

Shigeru made the calculation silently: too young to be Shigemori’s son, too old to be his grandson-well, the coincidence would have been too great.

“Your name is Kenji?”

“Muto Kenji. My family are from Yamagata.”

Shigeru could feel the fever returning, bringing a strange lucidity to his thoughts. “And one of them is Muto Shizuka?” he said without expression.

“She is my niece, my older brother’s daughter. I believe you met her last year.”

“You know I did. I presume you know everything about those meetings and that Iida Sadamu does too.” Shigeru moved his hand closer to the sword’s hilt. “What are you playing at?”

“What makes you think I am playing?”

The woman returned with food and wine, and Shigeru did not want to say more in front of her.

“You are safe with me,” I swear it, Kenji said with apparent sincerity. “Eat. Drink.”

A starving man has no scruples: once Shigeru had smelled the food, it was impossible to resist it. Whatever lay before him, he would face it better on a full stomach. He drank wine, too, sparingly, watching Kenji closely, hoping it might loosen his tongue, but though the Fox drank two bowls to every one of Shigeru’s, the wine seemed to have little effect on him other than flushing his pale face red. When they had finished, the woman took away the dishes and returned to ask, “Will you rest now? I can spread out the beds?”

“Who is the god of the shrine?” Shigeru asked.

“Hachiman,” she replied. The god of war.

“I would like to have sutras said for the dead,” Shigeru continued. “And cleanse myself from pollution before sleeping.”

“I will go and tell the priest,” she said quietly.