The Shogun's Daughter: A Novel of Feudal Japan (Sano Ichiro Mysteries)

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “Save the unbroken ones,” a man on the roof ordered. “There’s a shortage of tiles.”

  Masahiro hurried over to help. “Thank you,” the young man muttered as he and Masahiro sorted good tiles into the box and threw fragments onto a trash heap.

  The other men sat on the roof and watched. Disgruntled because they were forced to do menial labor, they took out their anger on their comrade, talking about him as if he weren’t there. “I never saw anybody so careless.” “He doesn’t pay attention to what he’s doing.” The young man’s sensitive mouth tightened as he sorted tiles. “His head has been in the clouds.” “Do you think it’s because of the mistress?” The men chuckled.

  Masahiro’s attention perked up. The mistress—that must mean Lord Tsunanori’s wife, Tsuruhime. He studied the man he was helping. Could he have something to do with the shogun’s daughter and her murder?

  The young man flung the last good tile into the box. His cheeks were bright red. With quick, angry movements he lifted the box onto a wooden platform and cranked a pulley. The men on the roof grasped the box and guided it onto the roof. They continued their conversation.

  “All those afternoons he spent alone with her in her room before she got sick.” “Did he think the master wouldn’t find out?” “Now that she’s dead, he’s really lost his wits.”

  “Shut up!” the young man burst out, glaring up at his comrades. “Just shut the hell up!”

  They guffawed. One said, “Jinnosuke is in a bad mood.” Another said, “His little balls must be aching because he’s not getting any pussy!”

  Masahiro had overheard enough conversation at Edo Castle to understand that these men were talking about sex. Their remarks implied that the young man had had an affair with Tsuruhime. Masahiro was excited because it might have a bearing on her murder.

  Jinnosuke stalked toward the gate, his eyes shiny with angry tears. The other men called, “Hey, come back here and get to work!”

  Masahiro hurried after Jinnosuke. Outside the gate he bumped into a little girl in a green kimono. “Taeko?” Startled, he said, “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you.” She looked timid and anxious.

  “How did you know where I was?”

  “I followed you.”

  “You followed me?” Masahiro said, taken aback. “All the way from the house?”

  Taeko nodded. She hunched her shoulders.

  Masahiro was upset because he hadn’t noticed her. If he couldn’t spot a little girl on his trail, what would have happened if someone dangerous had been stalking him? He would be dead. And Taeko must have seen the other pages bullying him. His face burned with fresh shame.

  “I thought I told you to stay home,” he said.

  She looked at the ground. “I wanted to help you investigate.”

  Masahiro looked up the street. Jinnosuke was nowhere in sight. Masahiro ran to the intersection, looked left, then right. All he saw were porters, oxcarts, mounted troops, and pedestrians. He ran back to Taeko.

  “I lost my witness!” All the anger and frustration that had built up inside him today spilled over. “It’s your fault.”

  Taeko stared up at him with alarm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “That’s why I didn’t want you to come,” Masahiro said, venting the emotions he’d struggled to hide from other people. “Because you would get in the way! And now I have to put off my investigation to take you home!”

  Tears welled in Taeko’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I won’t bother you anymore.” She turned and ran down the street.

  Now Masahiro was sorry he’d scolded her. She didn’t understand what he was going through. He’d done the same thing those samurai had—taken out his anger on an innocent person. And Taeko was his friend. How he regretted hurting her feelings!

  “Wait, Taeko,” he called.

  She was gone.

  11

  IN THE HIBIYA administrative district south of Edo Castle, the regime’s high officials had once lived and worked in stately mansions enclosed by high walls. The earthquake and fires had destroyed most of the district, but as Sano rode through it with Marume, he noticed porters lugging trunks and streets blocked by oxcarts filled with furniture. Residents were moving back into their repaired homes. Still, glaring signs of the disaster remained. Barricades made of scrap wood and other debris substituted for walls not yet rebuilt. Beyond these rose the tents where many residents still lived.

  Sano and Marume dismounted outside a new gate. The sentry admitted them to a mansion whose wood structure smelled pungently of fresh cedar resin. The plaster on the half-timbered walls looked fresh enough that Sano could leave his handprint in it if he wanted.

  “Didn’t the chief tax collector used to live here?” Marume asked.

  “He committed suicide,” Sano said. The earthquake had begotten a flood of suicides that was only just tapering off. Many people, driven to despair because they’d lost relatives and friends, their homes, work, and income, had chosen to die rather than face a future that seemed so bleak. Sano thought of Elder Ohgami. “It’s now headquarters for the rebuilding magistrates.”

  Inside the mansion, chambers were filled with clerks who sat at desks piled with ledgers and scrolls. Maps and architectural diagrams covered the walls. The clerks argued about deadlines, roadwork projects, and new bridges. They negotiated prices for labor, supplies, and loans with merchants who added sums on the beads of soroban. Sano and Marume met a samurai in the hall. He had a smile so bright and a complexion so shiny that his face seemed to glow. It dimmed a little when he recognized Sano.

  “Greetings, Sano-san,” he said, and bowed. “I’m Moriwaki, one of the rebuilding magistrates. The four others are out in the field. I heard you would be coming.”

  “Greetings.” Sano could tell that Moriwaki wasn’t pleased to have a new chief put over him. He introduced Marume. The men exchanged bows.

  “Are you ready to start learning your new job?” Moriwaki asked.

  “Yes.” After fourteen years in regime’s top inner circle, Sano found himself in the position of being trained by a subordinate. It dealt another humiliating blow to his samurai pride.

  “Come right this way.” Walking with energetic speed, Moriwaki led Sano and Marume to an office furnished with iron trunks for documents and money, ledgers on shelves, and new lacquer cabinets. He knelt behind the desk in the raised study niche.

  “You look familiar,” Sano said as he and Marume knelt on the floor. “Weren’t you once a checkpoint guard at the castle?”

  “Yes.” Moriwaki laughed at his former modest rank. “After the earthquake, I organized brigades to clean up debris inside the castle. I went on to supervise rebuilding the roads and canals around town. My superiors were impressed. That’s how I got this job.” He beamed at Sano. “I never thought I’d be sitting with you like this.”

  Sano had a distasteful sense that he and Moriwaki were passing each other—Moriwaki on his way up, Sano on his way down. Sano thought again of his colleagues who’d killed themselves. How much more could he endure?

  Moriwaki showed Sano maps and building plans, budgets and schedules, explaining at top speed. Detective Marume put on the drowsy, vacant expression of a dull-witted pupil at school. Sano’s head spun with technical details for which his past experience had ill equipped him. He felt in danger of becoming a mere figurehead, the kind of official he’d always scorned.

  “There’s lots of government money pouring into the earthquake recovery, and lots of people skimming it off,” Moriwaki said. “We have spies watching out for corruption. We investigate tips, and we conduct trials of people who are caught stealing or cheating.”

  Finally Sano saw something he was qualified to handle. “I’ll take that over.”

  “One thing to keep in mind: When Chamberlain Yanagisawa helps himself to the relief funds, we have orders to look the other way.” Moriwaki grinned. “I don’t need to tell you what he’s capable of doing when he’
s crossed, do I?”

  Anger flamed suddenly and ferociously in Sano. Not even the earthquake could stop Yanagisawa from robbing the government. Sano thought of the refugee family camped outside the castle. Money slated to help them and other suffering people would go toward buying political support for Yanagisawa and Yoshisato. That was more reason why Sano couldn’t let them take over Japan.

  Moriwaki gave Sano a ledger. “Here’s a list of the spies, the tips that need to be investigated, and the trials scheduled. We also investigate construction accidents.”

  A clerk put his head in the doorway. “There’s been an accident at the Ryōgoku Bridge.”

  Sano had to get away before he exploded. “I’ll go investigate.”

  * * *

  RIDING THROUGH THE Nihonbashi merchant quarter, past buildings repaired, under construction, or still in ruins, Sano and Marume encountered news-sellers hawking broadsheets filled with stories of brawls between gangs from rival villages, who’d come to Edo since the tsunami. Business flourished in moneylending shops; the merchants raked in strings of coins and drove borrowers into debt. A refugee couple tried to sell Sano their daughter, a common practice these days. Canals were jammed with boats waiting to unload at the fish market. People made desperate by food shortages clamored to buy directly from the boats. Sano felt the fragile city bursting its seams, nearing the limits of how many people it could hold. Along the river were new warehouses from which supplies went out as fast as they came in. New docks accommodated barges, houseboats, and ferries. Ahead Sano saw the Ryōgoku Bridge, the site of one of the earthquake’s worst disasters.

  People trying to escape the wreckage and fires in the city had jammed the bridge, which had collapsed under their weight. Hundreds of people had drowned in the Sumida River, which had been heated almost to a boil by debris from burning warehouses. Where the bridge had collapsed, now tall wooden supports rose, reinforced by crossed beams. Three new spans arched high above the river, reaching toward Honjo district on the opposite bank. Chattering crowds flocked along the path, on a pier, and around the massive stone base where the bridge originated. Fishermen stood in boats gathered beneath the bridge’s last span, gazing down at the water.

  “What happened?” Sano called as he and Marume dismounted on the path.

  “They just put up another section of the bridge,” an old peasant man said. “It collapsed. Five men died. They’re looking for the other.”

  “Accidents are too common these days,” Marume said. “How many men have been injured or killed?”

  “Hundreds. I’ve lost count,” Sano said. “With the push to restore the city, the engineers and workers are taking shortcuts and sacrificing safety. Not just in town, but at the castle.”

  Marume nodded. “I wonder how solid some of those new walls and towers are.”

  Splashes came from the water near the boats as divers surfaced. They cried, “He’s pinned under the pilings! We can’t move them—they’re too heavy!”

  At least an hour must have passed since the accident. Sano doubted that the lost worker could still be alive. Marume nudged Sano and said, “Look at what the wind just blew in.”

  Hirata jostled his way along the pier. Sano stared, surprised to see his chief retainer after five months. Hirata looked like a tramp with his shaggy hair and beard. At the end of the pier, he dropped his swords. He dove into the river and disappeared. The water under the bridge roiled. Sano, Marume, and the crowd watched in hushed anticipation.

  “How can he hold his breath for so long?” Marume muttered.

  Hirata broke the surface, gasping for air. He held the inert body of a man. The crowd cheered. The divers looked dumbfounded. Fishermen hauled the man into a boat. They pounded his chest, tried to push water out of his lungs. Giving up, they shook their heads.

  Moans of disappointment rose from the crowd. Hirata swam to the pier. People in the crowd pulled him up, handed him his swords, and patted his back as he staggered to the riverbank. Obviously upset because he’d failed to save the injured man, he headed straight to Sano and Marume as if he’d known all along that they were there.

  “Where have you been?” Marume demanded.

  Sano knew Marume was angry with Hirata for his absence. When Marume looked at Hirata, he didn’t see an old friend; he saw the fellow samurai who’d deserted their master.

  Panting from exertion, Hirata slicked water off his face with his hand. His gaze, filled with shame and anguish, met Sano’s.

  “Do you think you can just stroll into town and expect Sano-san to take you back as if nothing had happened?” Marume said, infuriated because Hirata was ignoring him.

  “I owe you an explanation,” Hirata said to Sano.

  Sano studied Hirata with distrust, wondering if Hirata meant to tell the truth or fabricate an excuse.

  “This ought to be good,” Marume said.

  “Can I talk to you alone?” Hirata asked Sano.

  “All right.” Sano wanted to give Hirata a chance to regain his trust. Maybe Hirata had a valid reason for desertion. Maybe the bond between retainer and master could be repaired.

  Marume shook his head in disapproval. Leaving him, Sano and Hirata walked along the river. They stood side by side on the stone embankment, gazing across the water.

  “I’m listening,” Sano said.

  Hirata described how Tahara, Deguchi, and Kitano, his teacher’s other disciples, had lured him into their secret society. He told Sano about the demonstration Tahara had performed, that had convinced Hirata to join, that had caused the death of Yanagisawa’s son Yoritomo.

  Sano turned to gape at Hirata, incredulous. “They killed Yoritomo? By doing such a little thing?”

  “You don’t believe me.” Hirata’s expression was both defensive and mournful.

  Sano decided Hirata wasn’t lying. Hirata was a terrible liar; he could withhold information, as he’d done for so long, but he couldn’t hide dishonesty. Hirata believed what he was saying. Sano faced the river again, thinking back to that awful scene fifteen months ago, when his investigation of a scandalous murder had led to Yoritomo’s death. It had seemed straightforward at the time. Events had spun out of everyone’s control. Fate had taken its own, inexplicable course.

  Or had it?

  Sano remembered an uneasy feeling he’d had since then—a suspicion that there was more going on than he could see, hear, or logically deduce. He knew that the mystic martial artists of legend could command supernatural forces. Why not modern-day ones? Sano let himself consider the possibility that Hirata’s friends had somehow caused Yoritomo’s death. If they had, then Sano wasn’t to blame. He could stop feeling guilty.

  “Go on,” Sano said.

  Hirata told about a magic spell book, a ritual, and a ghost warrior who’d appeared to him in a trance and burned a message onto his arm. He described how the message had vanished after he’d done its bidding.

  Rage thunderstruck Sano. “You set Masahiro up?” At the time Sano had thought there was something strange about a run-in that Masahiro had had with Lord Ienobu. Hirata had pulled the strings behind the scenes. “You put my son in danger!”

  “I didn’t mean to,” Hirata said, defensive but contrite. “I didn’t know what was going to happen.”

  Reining in his temper, Sano said, “Tell me more about this ghost warrior.”

  “My friends say he’s the spirit of a warlord who was killed during the Battle of Sekigahara.”

  Sano knew that the veil between the human world and the spirit realm was thin. He’d once met a ghost himself. “Tell me more about these friends of yours.”

  “Tahara is a retainer to the daimyo of Iga Province. He does security work for the government. Kitano is a soldier in Lord Satake’s army. Deguchi is a Buddhist priest in the Zōjō Temple district.”

  “And the ghost died heroically on the battlefield. They’re all fine, upstanding citizens. What else?”

  Hirata pressed his trembling lips together. His eyes contained an angu
ish so black that they seemed to drain light from the day. Sano had seen that look on men on their way to the execution ground. “They murdered Ozuno. They stole the magic spell book. The ghost fought against Tokugawa Ieyasu and lost. He wants to avenge his death by destroying the Tokugawa regime. He enlisted Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi to help him, because he’s just disembodied energy and he can’t act by himself. They enlisted me.” Hirata gulped, as if the words he had to say nauseated him. “Destroying the regime is the purpose of our society.”

  Here, at last, was the reason for Hirata’s secrecy, the nature of his trouble. Sano’s outrage was so powerful it exploded. “You involved yourself in a treasonous conspiracy!” Grabbing Hirata by the shoulders, Sano shouted, “What were you thinking?”

  Hirata bit his lips and blinked. Sano had never raised a hand to his men, but Hirata’s offense pushed him past the point where mere words could adequately express his anger. Sano punched Hirata on the cheek. Hirata staggered; he didn’t hit Sano back. A samurai didn’t strike his master.

  “Have you no loyalty to our lord?” Sano punched Hirata’s face again and again. “Have you lost all your respect for your own honor?”

  Blood trickled from Hirata’s nose and mouth. Tears mixed with it while he let Sano punish him. Sano was horrified that their friendship had come to this. His urge for violence died. As sapped of energy as if he’d gone ten rounds in combat practice and lost every one, Sano sat down on the embankment. Hirata sat a few paces away. He held his sleeve to his bleeding mouth and nose. Sano looked at his hand. His knuckles were bruised, nicked by Hirata’s teeth, and bloody. His anger turned hard and cold.

  “When did you find out the purpose of the secret society?” he asked.

  “Four months ago,” Hirata said in a muffled voice.

  “Meaning, you didn’t know what the society was all about before you joined.”

  Hirata nodded miserably. “If I had, I never would have gone along with Tahara and Kitano and Deguchi.”