“Ispy with my little eye,” Esumi announced grandly from his horse, “something that begins with . . . T.”
“Tree,” Haru said immediately.
“Tree,” I agreed.
Silence from behind us.
“Captain Yamamoto,” Esumi called over his shoulder. “You’re supposed to guess.”
Our guard captain, a stern Samurai who looked like he’d been carved from granite and had never learned what smiling was, didn’t even glance up. In the three days we’d been traveling, I’d heard him speak perhaps ten words, and most of those were “Yes, Your Highness” or “No, Your Highness.”
“The captain does not play games. He keeps us alive,” Haru said diplomatically.
“The captain doesn’t play, period,” Esumi corrected. “Look at him back there, fondling hiskatanalike it’s his lover.”
Yamamoto’s jaw clenched, but still he said nothing.
“Have you named it?” Esumi continued, turning in his saddle to ride backward, grinning at the stoic guard. “Something romantic? ‘Moonlight’s Kiss’? ‘Cherry Blossom’s Caress’?”
“Esumi,” Haru warned.
“Or is it a naughty sword? Should its name be ‘Deep and Rough’ or ‘Do Me, Daddy’?”
I had to cover my mouth at that.
“I bet he sleeps with it,” Esumi stage-whispered to me, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Cuddles it at night. Whispers sweet nothings into its scabbard.”
The captain’s knuckles went white on his reins.
“I mean,” Esumi continued, undaunted. “Don’t get me wrong. I love a good sword. Our gracious prince can attest to that.”
“Esumi!” Haru snapped, his tone belying a laugh he could no longer control.
“Do you oil it by candlelight? Make it all slick and easy to slide into dark places? God, that feels so good, doesn’t it?” Esumi’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I bet you run your fingers lovingly down its shaft. Does it have its own special pillow beside yours?”
“Esumi, gods, please stop,” Haru said, but he was fighting not to laugh.
“I’m just saying, a manthatdevoted to his sword must have feelings for it. Deep, passionate, hot-and-bothered feelings, the kind of feelings that—”
“Tree.”
We all stopped. Even my horse’s head turned to look back.
Captain Yamamoto had spoken. His expression hadn’t changed—still carved from stone—but he’d answered.
“I’m sorry, what?” Esumi asked, delighted. “I didn’t hear you.”
“The answer is tree,” Yamamoto said flatly before urging his horse forward. “It has been tree for the last seven times. We are in a forest.Everythingis trees.”
Esumi’s face lit up like the sun. “HE PLAYS! Captain Stoney-Face plays games! This is a momentous day! Mark it in the histories!”
Yamamoto groaned—one of the few non-word sounds I’d heard him utter at Esumi’s perpetual sexual references. Before any of us could react, the stoic Samurai spurred his horse and trotted past, as though the scouts leading our party might need to discuss something, like the color of the trees a few yards to our south.
But I could have sworn I saw his shoulders shake with amusement. Only once.
“Victory!” Esumi declared, punching the air. “I have broken through the legendary Yamamoto armor. Next, I’ll make him smile. Then laugh. Then—”
“Then he’ll run you through with that sword he’s so fond of,” Haru suggested. “And the rest of us will thank him. I might even give him full Imperial honors for sparing us your constant prattle.”
