Risking another glance, Taeko saw guilt on his face: He knew he’d broken his promise and didn’t want her to guess. Anger steadied Taeko. “You’re married,” she said coldly.
“But we already decided you’re going to be my concubine.”
He thought she would live with him and he could go back and forth between her and Kikuko! She would have to listen to them making love all the time, and she would know he wanted Kikuko more than her. “I’ve changed my mind.” Her voice wobbled.
“Why?” Masahiro grabbed her arm and turned her to face him. She twisted, avoiding his gaze, afraid she would cry. “All of a sudden, you don’t love me anymore?”
Taeko wanted to say yes, she’d come to her senses, it was no good prolonging a relationship that their families disapproved of. Instead she blurted the truth. “If I can’t have you to myself, I don’t want you at all.”
“But you do have me. Kikuko is my wife in name only.”
Tears burned Taeko’s sore, swollen eyes. “How can you say that?” She hadn’t meant for Masahiro to know she’d watched him and Kikuko—she was ashamed of it—but she couldn’t help herself. “After last night?”
He stiffened. “Nothing happened last night.” His voice was brusque. “I promised I wouldn’t touch her, and I didn’t.”
He thought he could lie to her and get away with it! Taeko smelled soap and fresh wintergreen hair oil on him; he’d been careful to bathe away the smell of sex. Furious, she exploded at him. “You broke your promise! You made love to Kikuko!”
“That’s not true! Why don’t you believe me?”
“I was watching you through the window. You were playing dogs!”
Masahiro blenched with shock and horror, then flushed with anger. “You spied on me? How could you do such a sneaky thing?”
That he would try to put her in the wrong! “It’s a good thing I did! Because now I know what you are.” Taeko sobbed. “You’re a liar and a cheater!”
He exhaled, rubbed his mouth, and groaned. Now he looked wounded, appalled by his own actions, sick with shame and regret. “I’m sorry.” His voice cracked. “Please forgive me.” He reached for Taeko.
She remembered his hands holding Kikuko while he plunged in and out of her. She slapped them away. “Don’t touch me!”
“It was only sex,” Masahiro hurried to say. “It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t care about her. It’s you I love.”
Taeko was crying so hard, she could barely speak. “You forgot about me last night!”
“I made a mistake. I won’t do it again.”
“The next time she wiggles her bottom at you, you’ll say no?”
“… I will!”
His lack of conviction stabbed such pain through her heart that Taeko moaned. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to believe you? Well, I’m not!”
She could never trust him again; things would never be the same. Taeko fled down the stairs, into the wet garden.
Masahiro ran after her, calling, “I’m sorry! Let me make it up to you!”
He caught her arm. She shrieked, “Leave me alone!” and flailed her fists at him. He tried to hold her. As they struggled, she lost her balance and fell. She lay on the ground and screamed, “Knock me down! Hit me if you want!” Masahiro stood over her, looking miserable. “Kill me! Kill the baby, too! Then you won’t have to bother with us!”
His face went blank. “What baby?”
This wasn’t how Taeko had meant to tell him, but it was too late to take it back. She sobbed out the words. “I’m with child.”
Masahiro staggered as if she’d hit him across his stomach. He inhaled, was dumbfounded, and puffed out his cheeks. “How long have you known?”
“A while.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He sounded as grieved as angry.
Her own anger helped Taeko regain her self-control. “When would have been a good time? While we were sneaking into the storeroom? After you were engaged to marry Yanagisawa’s daughter?”
“You should have told me. I had a right to know. It’s my baby, too.” Masahiro seemed amazed by the idea that he was going to be a father, then stupidly proud, then relieved and smug. “This means you can’t break up with me.”
“You think my baby and I will live with you and Kikuko? So that she can be mean to it and you can ignore it while you make babies with her?” Being Masahiro’s concubine had seemed possible before Taeko had seen Kikuko at the wedding. It was unthinkable after last night. Taeko sat up and glared. “Never!”
“Be reasonable,” Masahiro said, impatient with her defiance, hurt because she was rejecting him. “What are you going to do if you don’t become my concubine?”
Terrified of the future, enraged by her helplessness, Taeko said, “I don’t know, and I don’t care! I’d rather die than be your concubine! I hate you!”
His gaze softened with painful tenderness. “You don’t mean that.” His tone reminded her of the times they’d lain in each other’s arms, whispering passionate vows of eternal love.
“Yes, I do!” Taeko had no way to salvage her pride except to lash out at Masahiro and hurt him as much as he’d hurt her. “You’re selfish, and dishonest, and stupid, and cruel.” He flinched at the insults; his expression grew more downcast with each. She tasted bitter satisfaction. “You’re dishonorable!”
It was the worst thing she could say to a samurai. The hurt in Masahiro’s eyes blazed into sudden fury. He raised his hand as if to strike her, then dropped it. They stared at each other, aghast.
“You want it to be over between us, all right, it’s over,” Masahiro said in a hard voice. “Do whatever you want. I’m going back to my wife.” He turned on his heel and stalked into the house without looking back.
Taeko collapsed on the ground and wept.
* * *
THE COURTYARD OF Lord Mori’s estate bustled with preparations for war. Troops swaggered out of the barracks, dressed in full battle regalia—iron helmets, chain-mail arm and leg guards, and armor tunics made of hundreds of leather-covered metal plates. They hoisted cannons and balls onto wagons. Grooms brought horses, also clad in armor, from the stables. Gunners rammed gunpowder down the barrels of arquebuses.
Yanagisawa stalked through the crowd, calling, “Where is Sano?”
He needed Sano to accompany the squadron that would seek out and kill Lord Ienobu. Sano was one of the few men in his faction who’d ever fought a real battle; most had only fought practice matches.
Nobody he asked had seen Sano since last night. Sudden suspicion propelled Yanagisawa inside the mansion, to the chamber that contained the secret exit. On the floor lay the two men he’d ordered to guard the exit in case Sano tried to use it again. The trapdoor was open. The men’s wrists and ankles were bound, their mouths gagged.
Ripping off the gags, Yanagisawa demanded, “What happened?”
“Someone hit me on the head,” mumbled one guard. The other said, “Me, too.”
Yanagisawa pictured Sano and Detective Marume sneaking up behind the guards, knocking them out, and tying them up. He knelt by the trapdoor and peered into the dark, silent tunnel. Where had they gone? For what purpose? Yanagisawa only knew that Sano had deserted him at this crucial moment.
“Sano!” he roared down the tunnel, and heard only the echo of his own furious voice.
* * *
AS SANO AND Marume raced through Nihonbashi, citizens hiding in their homes peeked fearfully through windows. People scurried in and out of the few shops open for business. Moorings along the canals were unoccupied, the boats and barges gone. Sano and Marume arrived at the Nihonbashi Bridge, the starting point of the Tōkaidō, the main highway that ran from Edo to points west. All the traffic was heading out of town, the commoners who hadn’t left yesterday fleeing before the war started. Porters carried baggage for rich merchant families in palanquins; poor folk with their worldly goods on their backs jostled priests, monks, and nuns.
“If I were a rat, I’d leave this ship
, too,” Marume said.
Sano was sad to realize that even if he could leave—even if he didn’t have a mission to finish and a battle to fight—Reiko and Masahiro might not want to go with him. Things were that bad. Sano glanced at Marume. Even his old friend must have lost faith in him. But Marume willingly stuck with Sano while they went down in the sinking ship.
“Thank you,” Sano said. A master didn’t owe his retainer any thanks, but he wanted to tell Marume his loyal service was appreciated and he wasn’t taken for granted.
Marume shrugged and said, “Don’t mention it.”
They stopped outside a barbershop set amid inns, teahouses, and restaurants that catered to travelers. The door behind the blue curtain that hung halfway down the entrance was open. He and Marume entered the shop. Three men knelt on the floor by the hearth. An elderly, one-armed barber shaved the scruffy beard off a samurai who looked as if he’d been living rough. Two other samurai with the same unshaven, ragged appearance ceased their conversation. All the men trained unfriendly gazes on Sano and Marume.
“If you’re here to ask about Hirata-san, my answer is the same as last time,” the barber said. “I haven’t seen or heard from him.”
Sano had expected as much, but the barbershop was a haunt of itinerant martial artists, the only place he might hope to get news of Hirata. “And if you had, you wouldn’t tell me.”
The barber oiled his customer’s hair, twisted it into a topknot, tied it with twine, and trimmed the end with one deft hand. “You have your code of honor. We have ours.”
“If you do see Hirata, tell him I said he’s gone too far, and it’s time for him to turn himself in before he hurts any more innocent people.”
Concern showed on the barber’s lined face. “What’s he done?”
“He murdered a little boy,” Sano said.
The barber squinted at Sano and seemed to decide he was telling the truth. “I never thought he was capable of that.” His loyalty to Hirata visibly waned.
“That and probably worse. So if you’ve any news about him, you should tell me.”
“I’ve heard news,” the barber said reluctantly. “But not about Hirata. It’s his three friends.”
“You mean Deguchi, Kitano, and Tahara?” Marume asked.
The barber nodded. “Deguchi’s body was found on a hill outside town, four or five years ago. It looked like he’d lost a terrible fight. The last I heard of Kitano and Tahara was a while later. A friend of mine who was visiting Sky Mountain Temple saw them there. They disappeared. One night he woke up to hear the monks chanting prayers, and he smelled burning flesh. I think Kitano and Tahara are dead, too.”
Sano looked at Marume. They shared their relief that the secret society members were gone, the suspicion that Hirata had killed them, and the disturbing certainty that he, the only one left, was responsible for the boy’s murder. What else had the ghost compelled Hirata to do?
Back on the street, Marume said, “That was hardly worth knocking out Yanagisawa’s men. How are we supposed to investigate Hirata when we can’t even find him?”
Sano was discouraged, too, but he said, “Hirata left a track when he murdered Dengoro—the fingerprint. He may have left other tracks. I know of a place to start looking.”
* * *
STANDING UNDER THE eaves of a teahouse, Hirata watched Sano and Marume emerge from the barbershop across the street and walk away. Sano is looking for me! I have to go to him!
You wanted to see Sano. You’ve seen him. General Otani clamped his will down on Hirata. That’s enough.
Hirata exerted his own will against the paralysis that kept him rooted to the spot. Sweat popped out on his forehead. His body wouldn’t move. Let me talk to him!
So that you can confess everything you’ve done? And tell him about me? General Otani’s contemptuous chuckle vibrated through Hirata. What good would that do?
Hirata tried to scream in frustration. General Otani silenced him as if with an iron hand that squeezed his throat. People passing by, hurrying to leave town, paid him no attention. I want to make a clean breast, Hirata pleaded. It was the least he owed Sano after years of deceit.
That might make you feel better, General Otani said, but suppose you did. Sano would try to interfere with my plans. I would have to make you kill him.
Despair fell upon Hirata like a landslide of boulders. This was the ultimate threat that the ghost held over him—that it would force him to hurt Sano or his family. He could live with anyone’s blood on his hands except theirs. The fight drained from Hirata. He would have fallen to the ground had not General Otani’s will kept his body standing upright.
Ah, you’ve come to your senses, General Otani said with satisfaction. Hirata’s paralysis dissipated. General Otani prodded him down the street with jabs of pain between his shoulder blades. No more wasting our energy on stupid resistance. Major events will soon transpire at the castle. We have to be there in case they need a nudge in the right direction.
33
“ISN’T THIS WHERE you grew up?” Marume asked as he and Sano hurried through a neighborhood at the edge of Nihonbashi.
“Yes,” Sano said.
His background wasn’t a secret, but he rarely talked about it. His father had been a rōnin who’d lost his samurai status when a previous shogun had confiscated his lord’s lands and turned the lord’s retainers out to fend for themselves. Sano’s family had settled in this district amid the commoners. So had other former samurai. Sano wasn’t ashamed that some people looked down on him because of his lowly origin, but his father had never gotten over the disgrace. Sano kept quiet about it out of respect for his father, dead twenty years. He sadly remembered his father being so proud of him when he earned a position in the Tokugawa regime and restored their family’s honor.
“It’s been rebuilt since the earthquake.” Sano looked through the drizzle at the rows of humble but new houses. Streets had been rerouted; the bridge over the willow-edged canal was new. His childhood home, vacated after his widowed mother remarried and moved out of town, was gone, replaced by a building that housed several families. Sano had the disturbing sense that his past had been erased and so had all the gains he’d achieved since he’d left his old home. He’d lost his high position in the regime, ruined his marriage, and handed over his son to his enemy. Self-pity, fatigue, and strain suddenly overcame him. His eyes stung. With his future in jeopardy, he had nowhere to go.
“Looks like everybody’s left town,” Marume said. Shops were closed, the houses deserted, the neighborhood gates unguarded.
Not everybody had, and a part of Sano’s past remained. A samurai dressed in full armor stood with his horse outside the martial arts school that Sano’s father had once operated, where Sano had learned and taught sword-fighting. The low building with a brown tile roof and barred windows resembled the original so closely that it seemed a figment of his memory.
“Aoki-san,” Sano called.
The samurai smiled, greeted Sano, and bowed. He was Sano’s father’s former apprentice, now master of the school. “What brings you here?”
Sano was so glad to see a friendly face, someone he hadn’t hurt. “I’m looking up a former colleague. His name is Toda Ikkyu. Do you know him?”
Aoki nodded and gave directions to Toda’s house. “He’s probably left already. I was just locking up before I go.” He patted the wall, a gesture of love for the school that he might never see again.
“Aren’t you leaving town?” Sano asked. Aoki’s horse wasn’t carrying any baggage.
“No. Neither are the other men from the neighborhood, except those who are old or sick. We’re staying to fight in the war.” Excitement brightened Aoki’s eyes.
Sano realized this was a big opportunity for the men. “On whose side? Yanagisawa’s or Lord Ienobu’s?”
“Whichever one will take us.”
It didn’t matter to them which side they fought on; joining either would regain them their samurai status. But for a
quirk of fate Sano might be in Aoki’s shoes. “Good luck.”
“You, too. May we meet again.” Aoki bowed. “I hope we end up on the same side.”
“If we don’t, no hard feelings,” Sano said.
Aoki rode away. Sano and Marume followed his directions to a row of houses. One entrance had the same clutter of buckets, brooms, and miscellany as the others, but the items seemed too deliberately arranged in order to make this home resemble the others so that it wouldn’t stand out. Sano knocked on the door. “Toda-san? Are you there?”
The man who answered looked as if the right half of his face had melted and solidified into a reddish purple mask of puckered scars. A black patch covered the eye. His scalp was bald on that side; the other was shaved. Sano’s heart lurched even though he’d seen Toda before and had known what to expect.
Marume, who hadn’t, said, “Whoa!”
“Meet Toda Ikkyu, retired spy,” Sano said.
“Is this the man you said you could never recognize?” Marume said in astonishment. “One look at that face, and I’d know it anywhere.”
Toda had once been completely nondescript and forgettable, an asset in his former profession as an agent for the metsuke, the Tokugawa intelligence service. “Detective Marume. I’ve heard about you.” He smiled with the undamaged half of his mouth. “This face is a reminder of my good luck.”
Marume stared with open revulsion. “Give me bad luck any time.”
“Some people lost their lives during the earthquake. I only lost half my face and a couple of fingers in the fire that burned down my house afterward.” Toda held up his hands. They were red and scarred, both missing the little fingers. He poked his head out the door. “You’d better come in out of the rain.”
His home consisted of one austere room. Sano, Marume, and Toda knelt on the frayed tatami. Shelves that held a few dishes, pots, and utensils surrounded a hearth at one end of the room. The bed was rolled neatly in a corner by a portable writing desk. A few trunks concealed everything else Toda owned.
“I haven’t any liquor, but I can offer you some tea,” Toda said.
The Iris Fan Page 26