But even though he was trapped at a dead end, pushed to the limits of his resources, another course of action occurred to him. He could do something he’d been wanting to do for fifteen years. He had nothing left to lose.
Sano called out, “Tokugawa Tsunayoshi!”
The shogun jerked, startled by the sound of his name spoken without the customary honorifics. The crowd buzzed. The soldiers paused, disconcerted.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Sano asked the shogun.
The shogun’s mouth pursed. His eyebrows rose quizzically. He pointed to his chest.
“Yes, you,” Sano said. “Why are you standing there like a wax dummy?”
The buzz from the crowd turned to groans. Nobody ever talked to the shogun like that. Ienobu and Lord Tsunanori gaped. Even Yanagisawa was dumbstruck. The shogun, who had the power to order Sano killed on the spot, seemed too flummoxed to speak.
“How typical of you,” Sano said scornfully. “You would rather be passive than act. You let other men tell you what to think and lead you around by the nose. You sit idle while they run the government. What’s the matter with you? Are you too lazy, or weak, or stupid to take control yourself?”
It felt so good to speak his mind, to express his anger at the shogun, to vent the frustration bottled up inside him for so long. The shogun bit his lips, like a child trying not to cry. Sano pitied him not at all.
“Or maybe you’re lazy, and weak, and stupid. You certainly give that impression.” Sano supposed he would pay for his rant, but he didn’t care. He would be dead at the end of the day. Then, nothing would matter. For now, the release was supremely worth it.
“Look what’s happening,” Sano said. “You’re letting him get away with murdering your daughter.” He pointed at Lord Tsunanori, who flinched. “And you let him protect Tsuruhime’s killer by silencing me before I can make him confess!” Sano pointed at Yanagisawa. “Is it too much trouble to stand up to other people? Are you not smart enough to realize they’re manipulating you? Or are you just too scared?”
The crowd gasped. That someone would openly accuse the shogun of cowardice! It was unheard of, blasphemous. Ienobu sputtered, offended on behalf of his uncle. Sano saw a familiar, hooded expression on Yanagisawa: He was letting the scene play out while scrambling to determine where it was going and how to turn it to his advantage.
“Yes, I think you are a coward.” Sano gloried in recklessness. “Why else would you stand there and let me insult you?”
The shogun’s face was white except for his pink-rimmed eyes and red, bitten lips. He did look like a wax dummy. The bearers set down Yoshisato’s bier. Nobody else moved. Nobody tried to stop Sano. He was saying what many secretly thought about the shogun and wanted somebody else to voice.
“It’s hard to believe you’re descended from the great Tokugawa Ieyasu, who founded the regime. He fought the Battle of Sekigahara against powerful warlords and their armies, and he won. What would he think of you?” Sano asked with biting contempt. “Your conceited ass of a son-in-law murders your own daughter, and instead of getting revenge for her, you stick your head up your behind!”
The fluttering of the birds in their cages was the only noise. Ienobu, with his bulging eyes and livid complexion, looked ready to explode. Yanagisawa wore a faint, curious smile. Sano rushed on, heedless.
“You let Chamberlain Yanagisawa condemn me for Yoshisato’s murder even though I’m innocent and you know it in your heart. You should make Lord Tsunanori confess to his part in Tsuruhime’s murder and put him to death. If you don’t, you’re the sorry, disgraceful dupe that Tokugawa Ieyasu would think you are!”
Sano stopped, out of breath. He’d thought he could go on forever, but he’d distilled all his grievances into one short, devastating speech. His reservoir of anger and hatred toward the shogun was empty. He felt cleansed, shaken by catharsis, and as light as air.
A hush filled the atmosphere, as if the world were holding its breath. The shogun stood speechless, blank-faced and shrunken by Sano’s invective, the temper and pettiness flayed out of his fragile body.
“Well,” Yanagisawa said. “You must feel better now that you’ve gotten that out of your system.” He sounded disgusted by Sano’s tirade yet gleeful. “Enjoy it while you can. You’ve just put the seal on your own doom.”
Even as exhilaration wore off and reality sank in, Sano held his head high. He didn’t regret what he’d said. It was true and just, and he’d dedicated his life to the pursuit of truth and justice, his personal code of honor. He hadn’t violated Bushido by telling off the shogun. A samurai’s duty included telling his lord things he didn’t want to hear and alerting him to mistakes he was making. Sano had performed his last, best service to the shogun. He could go to his death, not happily but with a sense of completion.
Yanagisawa nodded to the soldiers. “Take him.”
Ienobu’s concave chest and Lord Tsunanori’s muscular one expanded with relief. Excited whispers hissed through the crowd. People were already discussing what had transpired, passing the news to people outside the mausoleum compound.
“No,” the shogun said. “Wait.”
The whispers faded; the audience realized the show had a second act. “Why, Uncle?” Ienobu said, as surprised as Sano was.
Ignoring Ienobu, the shogun addressed Sano. “You’re right. I am a lazy, weak, stupid, cowardly dupe.” His voice trembled, and his face was wet with tears, but his speech impediment had vanished. “Everything you’ve said is fair, even though it hurts. I’ve always revered Tokugawa Ieyasu, but he would be ashamed of me.” Sano had unwittingly touched his most tender spot, his wish to deserve his ancestor’s respect. “Thank you for making me look at myself through his eyes. I don’t like what I see, but I must face it.”
This can’t be happening, Sano thought. He couldn’t believe what he, or the shogun, had just said. Now it was his turn to gape in shock.
Yanagisawa and Ienobu reacted with horror. “Don’t swallow that tripe Sano threw at you!” Yanagisawa said.
Ienobu said, “He’s trying to dupe you into sparing his life.”
“Quiet!” the shogun said with more force than Sano had ever heard. “I have to think for myself, instead of, ahh, being led by the nose.” Out of habit he lapsed into faltering speech, but recovered. “I must do what I, not other people, think is right.”
“Your Excellency,” Yanagisawa and Ienobu began.
The shogun waved, hushing them. “I always wanted to be my own man. But it was easier not to.” Shame lowered his voice. The spectators pressed closer to hear. “Being led by the nose became a habit. I thought it was too late to change.” A smile brightened his face. “But recently a wise young man told me that it’s never too late. He said, ‘As long as we’re alive, there’s a chance to do the things that are important.’”
Sano was amazed to hear his own words coming out of the shogun’s mouth. That was what he’d told Masahiro whenever Masahiro complained that he wanted to be good at many things but didn’t have enough time to practice them all. Masahiro must have talked to the shogun and passed on the sayings he’d heard at home. He was the shogun’s wise young man.
“He was right, too,” the shogun said. “I vow to change, starting today. I’m going to study the Way of the Warrior, and make my own decisions, and take my own actions. Even if other people don’t like it. Even if I make mistakes. ‘Mistakes are our best teachers.’”
Sano’s lips involuntarily formed these words he often said to both his children.
The shogun swelled with ardor. Color flooded back into his face. “I’m going to be like Tokugawa Ieyasu instead of a wax dummy.”
Sano saw the horror in Yanagisawa’s and Ienobu’s expressions worsen, and a lack of enthusiasm on the faces in the crowd. Nobody welcomed the shogun’s transformation. But Sano wanted to applaud the shogun. For the first time Sano had ever seen, the shogun was demonstrating humility. He sounded ready to make good on his vow. Sano forgave him fiftee
n years of maltreatment. His own forgiveness made Sano feel even calmer, lighter, and more at peace with the way he’d chosen to spend his last moments.
“I shall start by seeking justice for my daughter.” The shogun pointed to Lord Tsunanori. A tremor in his hand betrayed his fear of taking the first step, of opposing his subordinates, of confronting a murderer. “I order you to tell me: Did you kill Tsuruhime?”
Lord Tsunanori put his hand over his heart. He oozed sincerity. “I swear on my honor, I did not.”
Sano said, “You have no honor to swear on. I just talked to Namiji. She confessed that you asked her to infect Tsuruhime with smallpox. She betrayed you when she realized that she would take the whole blame for the murder and you would let her die rather than share the punishment. She’s under arrest.”
Lord Tsunanori’s loose mouth sagged. Terror enlarged his bold eyes. “That’s not true! I never asked Namiji to kill anybody! If she said I did, she’s lying.”
“No, you’re lying!” the shogun exclaimed. “I see your guilt written on your face. You’re responsible for my daughter’s death!” He looked frightened but determined to challenge the younger, stronger man instead of backing down. His cheeks reddened with anger. “Why?” he said. “Why did you do it?”
Lord Tsunanori hesitated, balanced between his tendency to do whatever he felt like, no matter how inappropriate, and his inkling that a wise man in his position would stand his ground. The shogun’s demands and his own impulsiveness tipped him over the edge.
“How would you like being married to a homely, vain, silly cow who constantly criticizes you?” he burst out. “How would you like to pay through the nose for the privilege, just because she’s your lord’s daughter? And she couldn’t even give me an heir. You of all people should know what a pain that is!”
The shogun frowned at the insult to Tsuruhime, the rudeness to himself. Lord Tsunanori went on, as if unable to stop. “Could you stand to be stuck with an ugly, barren, tiresome wife for the rest of your life? Well, I couldn’t. She kept pushing me and pushing me until she finally pushed me too far. And I couldn’t divorce her! So I told Namiji to give her smallpox. It was supposed to look natural, except that bitch Lady Nobuko got involved. She put Sano on to me. The way everything turned out, it’s all her fault.”
Sano had heard many self-justifying confessions but none as brazen. The shogun regarded Lord Tsunanori with loathing. He believed the confession.
Lord Tsunanori looked around at the spectators. He obviously realized he’d doomed himself. Tears blotched his face, but he smiled; his broad chest inflated his white robe. The man who stripped while playing hanetsuki enjoyed the attention. He said with pathetic triumph, “I’m not sorry I killed Tsuruhime. I’m just sorry I got caught.”
The audience beheld him with the vacant aspect of people who’d already used up their capacity for surprise.
“Uncle, you must—” Seeing the shogun glower at him, Ienobu said, “If I might make a suggestion—your law requires that since Lord Tsunanori is guilty of murder, he must commit seppuku.”
“Thank you, Nephew, I wouldn’t have thought of that myself,” the shogun said with atypical sarcasm. He turned to Lord Tsunanori. “Because you’re a daimyo and you have much business to put in order, I give you, ahh, three days until your ritual suicide.” He signaled the soldiers with a firm hand. “Put him under house arrest at his estate.”
The soldiers moved away from Sano, toward Lord Tsunanori. Lord Tsunanori gazed at the shogun and Ienobu with sudden confusion and anger. “Hey, wait.”
The shogun shook his head. The soldiers kept coming. Lord Tsunanori backed away from them, his hands raised. “I’m not finished confessing.”
“I’ve heard enough from you,” the shogun said.
Sano was surprised that there could be more to the crime than he’d thought. “Please let him finish, Your Excellency.”
“I said, that’s enough!” Now that he’d decided to think for himself, the shogun was as touchy about taking direction from Sano as from everyone else.
Lord Tsunanori drew his sword. “If I have to go down, I’m not going alone!”
* * *
TAHARA AND KITANO hung in midair, higher than the treetops, their knees flexed, arms spread, swords in hand. They began to spin as they plummeted, like twin tornados. Wind from them buffeted Hirata and Deguchi. Staggering, Hirata beheld them with frightful awe. They seemed made of air, as if speed had dissolved their substance. Above them, tree branches tossed. Under them, columns of dust swirled. As they touched ground, invisible blades lashed out of the tornados. The tornados separated. Kitano’s circled Deguchi. Tahara’s assailed Hirata.
Hirata’s mind vaulted to a higher level of consciousness. Thought and emotion were jettisoned like obsolete cargo. Mind and body united on a plane where training and instinct melded seamlessly. Reflex commanded his muscles. Hirata dodged blades he couldn’t see. They whistled past his face. His sword, an extension of his arm, flashed in all directions, like a crazed lightning bolt. His blade parried Tahara’s with clangs that sounded like the heavens shattering. Booms caused by their fast motion rocked the hill. Collisions melted steel surfaces. The smell of vaporized metal laced the air. Hirata barely felt the impacts. Mystical forces within him carried their energy from his body like harmless gases.
Deguchi and Kitano battled with equal, superhuman power. Hirata was simultaneously aware of them, Tahara, and everything else around him. He effortlessly avoided trees and rocks. As he pivoted and whirled, his speed caught up with Tahara’s and Kitano’s. He could see the shapes of their bodies and the movements of their limbs. Their faces came into focus, grimacing monstrously as they fought. The landscape blurred into a smear of green, brown, and blue. The fighters existed in a vacuum created by their own motion.
Hirata anticipated Tahara’s next actions right before they happened. A faint, luminescent image of Tahara, like a twin specter joined to his body, preceded him by an instant, whatever he did. The specter dodged to the right. Hirata swung at it, but his blade passed through vacant space. Tahara had changed course. He could see Hirata’s own specter revealing Hirata’s intentions. They feinted, ducked, and leaped within the hissing patterns carved by their swords. Kitano and Deguchi were caught up in the same contest. Despite fast, vicious slicing, no one could score a strike. The men battled furiously in the murky glow from their specters. The air filled with sweet chemical fumes from the energy their bodies burned.
There was a loud crack of steel fracturing.
Deguchi’s broken blade flew spinning into the woods.
The priest jumped into the air and somersaulted backward as Kitano lunged at him. Landing, he reached into the bush where Hirata had cached spare weapons. His hand came out holding another sword. He went at Kitano with undiminished vigor. But Hirata felt himself tiring. His wounded leg began to ache, a sign that he couldn’t keep this up much longer. He launched a dizzying spate of maneuvers at Tahara, forcing him onto the field of swords. Tahara jumped to elude a low strike Hirata. As he came down on the strewn leaves, a blade sliced up the inner side of his right foot and calf. Slashing at Hirata, he started to fall facedown onto the deadly blade tips.
Sword gripped in both hands, Hirata bellowed as he swung downward at the neck of Tahara’s specter. Tahara curled his body in midair, knees to his chest. Hirata’s strike, which should have decapitated him, grazed the top of his head. Blood spilled from the shallow cut on his crown, but he landed on his feet like a cat. He seemed not to feel the blades slash his ankles. Suddenly he was gone.
Hirata felt Tahara behind him, found himself in the sword field, hopping frantically to avoid the blades as Tahara swung at him. Sweat streamed from his pores, draining away precious water, salt, and elixirs. The battle had begun only moments ago, but it had already lasted for as long as many grand tournaments in martial arts legend.
Nobody had ever lasted much longer.
As Hirata’s movements slowed, Tahara’s and Kitano�
�s figures began to blur again. Deguchi’s was clearly visible: He was slowing down, too. The lights from the specters made Hirata dizzy. Aches burned his muscles. While he fought, Tahara’s blade licked his arms like sharp tongues of fire. Blood flew from him and Deguchi as the battle raged on. With an effort that wrenched a yell from him, Hirata jumped. He grabbed a vine-covered rope. Deguchi jumped, too. They swung high through the air on the ropes, away from their opponents.
Caught by surprise, Tahara and Kitano slackened their speed. Their figures came into focus, then halted. They stared upward.
Swinging down, Hirata and Deguchi slashed at Tahara and Kitano. Tahara dove to the left, Kitano to the right, too late. Hirata felt his blade hew flesh. He heard a cry from Tahara, then Kitano. They fell. Clinging to the ropes, Hirata and Deguchi swung upward again. As they descended, Tahara and Kitano stood. Blood stained Tahara’s surcoat, Kitano’s leggings. If their injuries were painful or serious, their enraged faces showed no sign. They leaped as Hirata and Deguchi hurtled toward them. Tahara caught Hirata’s rope. Chest to chest, they swung. They kicked and butted heads, punching with the hands that held their swords while their left hands gripped the rope, trying to throw each other off it. Kitano swung with Deguchi. The two pairs crisscrossed wildly, like spiders fighting on airborne webs.
Hirata felt his hand on the rope slipping. His nose bled from a blow from Tahara’s forehead. Tahara’s clenched teeth were bloody. Hirata kneed Tahara in the crotch. When Tahara recoiled, Hirata sheathed his sword. He reached down and grabbed the length of the rope that dangled under them. He flung the loop over Tahara’s head as he coiled the end around his right hand. Then he opened his left hand, releasing its grip on the rope.
His weight yanked the loop tight around Tahara’s throat. Tahara squealed as his air was cut off. His legs flailed above Hirata’s head. Hirata drew his sword for the killing stroke.
Tahara slashed the rope above him. The tension broke. He and Hirata plunged to the ground. Hirata landed on his back. Tahara crashed onto him. Hirata felt his ribs crack. Stunned by both impacts, he couldn’t breathe.
The Shogun's Daughter: A Novel of Feudal Japan (Sano Ichiro Mysteries) Page 32