1.

Muromachi Era, the Year 117

(1442 CE)

The young man walked into Old Jūjiro’s candlelit study with his head held high and his shoulders

square. He’s a quick one, Jūjiro thought, if he’s already guessed this is a test. Is he trying to

impress me with this mask of boldness? Does he think it will earn him entry into the arcane

secrets? Or is he not quick at all, but simply rash? Is the boldness genuine?

Jūjiro hoped it was not. At this point in his career, everyone he met treated him with

deference—and, more often than not, with a trace of fear. This boy showed neither. Still, the clan

elders had endorsed him. If his reputation was accurate, this boy was exactly the one Jūjiro

needed to pull off the greatest theft in living memory, to say nothing of saving the clan from

extinction.

“What is your name?” Old Jūjiro asked. The reedy quavering of his own voice surprised

him. He sometimes exaggerated the effect when meeting someone for the first time—it was no

small advantage to be underestimated by strangers—but this time there was no need. Age was

catching up with him all too swiftly.

“Tadanao,” the young man replied. He stood in the center of the room, tall enough that he

had to duck below the rafters. Dressed in simple blue farmer’s garb, his features were sharp, his

black hair short, his cheeks freckled from laboring in the sun. His loose-fitting pants were dusty,

the cloth about his shoulders faded. He looked shabby. All to the good, Jūjiro thought; he knows

how to be nondescript.

“Sit, Tada-san.” Old Jūjiro motioned at the wooden floor with a spotted, callused hand. He

laid his hands on the lacquered black table before him, its surface so polished he could see his

reflection even by candlelight. The wrinkles there surprised him, as did the wrinkles across his

gnarled knuckles. How had he grown so old so quickly? Or was it being in the presence of this

lithe, muscular boy that forced him to recall the grace and power of his own youth?

Tadanao kneeled on the mat, close enough to Jūjiro’s low table that he could touch it. His

back was still straight, his head high. If he’d taken offense at Jūjiro calling him by his childhood

name, he gave no sign.

“Tell me, Tada-san, what do you know of the daimyō Hirata Nobushige?”

“Enough.” Jūjiro did not approve of the boy’s haughty demeanor. “He has been fighting for

control of the Kansai since before I was born. Now that he has finished his new fortress, they say

he will win.”

“And what do you think of that?”

“I think Hirata has been hunting the Iga like dogs. If he secures the Kansai, I think our days

are numbered.”

“Indeed,” Jūjiro said. “And do you know who I am, Tada-san?”

“You are Iga Jūjiro. They say you are the best shinobi in the clan.”

Jūjiro nodded curtly. The boy used no honorifics, none of the deflections and self-

deprecations of polite conversation with an elder. Another sign of boldness, and of pride.

“Do you know why you are here, Tada-san?”

“I am being evaluated,” he said, masking the resentment in his voice almost completely,

narrowing his eyes so slightly and so briefly that Jūjiro almost doubted he’d seen it at all.

“Do you know why?”

“No.”

“Ah.” Honesty, even when it rankles, Jūjiro thought. Good. “Now,” he continued, “the

second test.” He reached by his side for a length of rope, showed it to the boy, then quickly tied a

knot of his own invention. “Take an end of the rope,” he said.

Tadanao did as he was told, and Jūjiro took the other end. “Slowly now, lean back,” he told

the boy, and Jūjiro did the same. For a moment they each supported the other’s weight, hanging

back over their haunches with a two-fisted grip on the cord. Then Old Jūjiro sat back up, the boy

mirroring him. “The knot can support your weight and mine, neh?” said Jūjiro. The boy nodded.

With a quick tug on both ends of the rope, Jūjiro made the knot pop open. “And yet it

cannot, neh?” He passed the rope across the table. “Tie the same knot. Then tell me why it can

support your weight and mine, and why an old man like me can pull it apart so easily.”

Tadanao took the rope in both hands, bowing slightly as he accepted it, and tied the knot

quickly and efficiently. He is bright, Jūjiro thought. He retains what he sees, and needs only to see

it once.

“Weighted slowly,” the boy said, pulling on both ends of the rope with gradual pressure, “the

knot will hold. But weighted quickly, the knot will unravel itself.”

He jerked on the ends to demonstrate. His face belied his surprise, for the knot did not

loosen in the slightest. He gave a hard jerk, then a harder one, and at last the knot popped open,

leaving a straight length of rope in its place. “You’re stronger than you look, Iga-sama.”

At last the honorific, Jūjiro thought. He is bright and bold. Good qualities in a shinobi. But

he respects ability, not seniority. Does he have enough wisdom to respect wisdom?

“Now the third test,” Old Jūjiro said. “The table you see before me once belonged to a great

daimyō. He won it fighting the Koreans, and brought it back from across the sea.”

Jūjiro watched the boy’s eyes as they took in the table: its low, broad, inky black surface,

reflective as a still pond; its curving black legs; the mother-of-pearl inlays adorning the front. Did

he pause for a moment on the pinhole he was seated before? Did he guess what was behind it? If

so, his eyes lingered for less than a heartbeat.

“It became the daimyō’s favorite heirloom, Tada-san. He took every meal at it, and had it

placed beside his bed it every night. It weighs as much as I do, and it cannot be taken apart

without irreparable harm. How would you steal it from his crowded palace?”

Tadanao bowed low. “Perhaps the question should be, ‘How did you steal it from his

palace?’”

“So you have heard the story.”

“Only that you were the one who stole it. But I’ve put much thought into how you might

have done it.”

“And?”

“You built a duplicate.”

Jūjiro allowed himself a small smile. “Did I?”

“You must have. You concealed the duplicate poorly in a wagon, and you arranged for the

wagon to be seen as the daimyō returned from some errand. The daimyō gave chase, along with

all his men, and you were free to carry his table out the front door.”

“Not bad.” Old Jūjiro smiled again. “You’ve passed every test save the one I cannot give

you, Tada-san. You are patient, quick-witted, creative, and insightful. The question that remains is

whether you know when to double-cross—and, more importantly, when not to.”

Tadanao cocked his head, looking at him through the corners of his eyes. “Do you mean to

suggest that I would double-cross you, sir?”

Again the honorific, Jūjiro thought. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“You are a legend, Iga-sama. I heard stories of you from the moment the clan took me in.

For a long time I wanted to be you.”

Old Jūjiro nodded. “The clan would be very fortunate indeed to have a good shinobi who

knows when not to double-cross. You would be lucky to know it, and I would be lucky if you

knew it too: I do not relish the thought of facing so young an enemy.”

He placed his wrinkled hands on the smooth lacquered tabletop. “Now then, have you heard

of the Tiger on the Mountain?”