When he reached the rocky spur where Gyomin’s hut was perched, he found an underwater mouth ringed with seaweed and glowing fish. Swimming into the tunnel, he found its walls were smooth to his touch, and he wondered whether it had first been formed by lava or by human tools. He soon emerged into a little chamber hollowed from the rock, lit by a tiny candle. There was no doubt that the chamber had been fashioned by human hands, for the hands were Gyomin’s. Like Old Jujiro, Gyomin was shinobi, and his profession as a fisherman was no more than a long-worn and supremely well-fitting disguise. Pressing his hands and feet against opposite walls, Tada climbed the wet rocks to a wooden panel. He knocked twice, and when Gyomin opened the panel Tada climbed up through the false bottom of Gyomin’s hearth. The old man was smiling at him, a conspiratorial grin that Tada returned. I’m sorry, Tada thought, but you’re a fool. You’re smiling because you think we stole the sword together.
