Kill the Shogun Read Online Free PDF Page A

he could have gotten confused on the directions and somehow ended up at the wrong place.
    Toyama lifted the reed basket covering his head to get a better look. He was disguised as a
komuso
, an adherent to the strange Fuke sect of Buddhism. These men wandered the countryside, wearing an inverted basket with eyeholes to mask their identity. They played the
shakuhachi
, the bamboo flute, as their way of asking for alms. Increasingly, samurai and ronin were converting to this sect as they sought escape from defeat and shelter in the sect’s temples. They were becoming a familiar sight on the streets of Edo, and their unusual headgear formed a perfect disguise.Since so many samurai were komuso, the disguise had the advantage of letting Toyama wear his swords as he masked his face.
    Toyama was quite proud of his selection of disguise, and he was convinced that no one knew where he had gone. The guards by the side gate of his villa were surprised when he left without an entourage, and they asked him if he wanted them to accompany him. He told them no and put the hat of the komuso on. The guards exchanged sly smiles at their master’s secrecy, convinced that he was out on an amorous adventure, perhaps to visit the wife of another man.
    Even with the impediment of the basket out of the way, Toyama saw no signs of life. Returning the basket to his shoulders, he carefully walked toward the temple. In his hand he carried a lantern. The flickering yellow light, smoothed by the thin paper that surrounded the lantern, allowed him to pick his way between the weeds.
    He hesitated a moment at the temple door, holding the lantern out before him so the weak light could penetrate the gloom.
    “Come in,” a voice said from out of the darkness. Toyama gave a start. He expected someone to be here to meet him, but he could not see where the owner of the voice was standing.
    “Your light will let others know we are here.” The voice was neutral in its intonation, but the speaker was actually quite annoyed by Toyama’s hesitancy. He had seen Toyama’s face when the Lord had lifted the komuso’s hat, so he was sure who his visitor was. Even without this stupid blunder, the man waiting in the gloom of the temple would know that this man was a daimyo and not a true priest. Toyama had adopted the basketlike hat of the komuso and had even stuck a bamboo flute in his sash, but no komuso could have a silk kimono or lacquered
geta
sandals as fine and expensive as the ones this man wore.
    At last, Toyama stepped into the temple. The air in the temple was musty and old and full of dead smells. The inside had a dirtfloor and the walls were stripped bare, so Toyama could not tell what God had been worshiped there. The feeble light of the lantern made a weak circle in the center of the floor but didn’t penetrate into the gloom beyond.
    The man saw Toyama kept his hand on his sword, as if this would protect him, and he smiled. If he wanted, the man could kill Toyama in a hundred ways, most of them not involving weapons. The man stepped out of the dark corner and into the light of the lantern. Toyama took a step backward.
    “You wanted to speak to us,” the man said. He was dressed all in black, with tied pants and a short jacket held by a sash. Black tabi socks covered his feet, and even the hemp ties of his sandals were rubbed with ink to help them blend into shadows. A short Chinese-style sword was strapped across his back, with the hilt protruding over one shoulder where the man could reach back to draw it out. A piece of black cloth was wound around his head and face, masking his identity.
    “Are you the one who gave me instructions?” Toyama asked.
    The man was disgusted with this Lord’s hesitancy and stupidity, but hid his impatience. “I am the one who was sent to talk to you,” he answered.
    “I… ah … I understand that you can be hired to do … ah … certain jobs…” Toyama let the sentence trail off, in a characteristic Japanese