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

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Tahara staggered upright. His face bright red, he gasped. A purple bruise circled his neck. He raised his sword in a trembling hand.

  Sheer terror pumped energy through Hirata. Wheezing, he drew his sword. Tahara hacked at him. He parried while lying on the ground like a piece of meat on a chopping board. Tahara’s blade was a swishing silver whir directly over him. Through the whir Tahara’s red face grinned, its mouth drooling blood. Hirata didn’t have room to stand up. His arm tired from fending off Tahara, who battered him relentlessly.

  Far above him, Deguchi and Kitano swung from their rope, tangled in furious combat. They fell together. Their tangled bodies crashed through the branches and leaves spread over the pit. The pit swallowed them up. A thud shook the earth. Hirata was exhausted. His sword grew heavier every moment. Tahara seemed determined to kill Hirata. He’d either forgotten that General Otani needed Hirata alive or he didn’t care. Enraged by Hirata’s betrayal, fixated on retaliation, he circled around to Hirata’s left side as he slashed.

  Hirata spun on the dirt like a broken pinwheel, keeping his head as far from Tahara’s blade as possible. Digging his heels into the ground, he scooted backward so fast that the friction burned his spine. Tahara chased him. Hirata couldn’t look where he was going. He didn’t dare take his eyes off Tahara, who towered at his feet, or the silver maelstrom of their blades clashing. Instinct guided him toward the edge of the clearing, to the hollow tree. He flung his sword at Tahara.

  Tahara batted it away with his own blade. Hirata kicked with both feet at Tahara. They grazed Tahara’s trousers. Tahara leaped back, toward the bonfire behind him. Hirata reached into the hollow tree, pulled out the paper bag, and hurled it at the bonfire. Confused, Tahara began to turn, following the motion of Hirata’s arm. The bag, which contained explosives, plopped into the bonfire. Hirata saw the paper go up in flames, saw Tahara recognize the trick.

  Roaring with anger, Tahara lunged at Hirata. A tremendous boom lifted Tahara off his feet. A brilliant orange sun exploded in the clearing. Tahara flew toward Hirata, arms spread, sword in hand, his face snarling, like a winged demon. Behind him, white, green, and red fountains of stars detonated and boomed within the sun. Hirata rolled over, pushed himself onto his hands and feet, and sprang.

  The blast hit him with searing heat and propelled him like a human rocket toward trees lit by the explosion. The collision wiped out his senses. He plunged into blackness.

  41

  INSIDE LADY NOBUKO’S chamber, Reiko paced the floor.

  “Stop that.” Lady Nobuko put a hand to her temple. “You’re making my head worse.”

  Reiko was too restless to sit. “I’m worried about Masahiro. He should have come back by now.” She wrung her hands, fearful that he’d been captured.

  The sound of the door opening halted Reiko. A young woman dressed in white burst into the chamber. She was a maid from the Large Interior. Panting with excitement, she said, “Korika is up on a watchtower! I thought you’d want to know. She’s going to jump!”

  Reiko’s breath caught. If Korika killed herself before she confessed that she’d set the fire, then all hope of exonerating Sano was lost.

  Lady Nobuko demanded, “What? Why?”

  “She said she killed Yoshisato. Right in front of everybody! Then she climbed up on the wall, and the soldiers went after her, and it collapsed, and now she wants to jump off the tower so she can’t be burned to death!”

  Korika had confessed in front of witnesses. She’d publicly exonerated Sano! But Reiko’s joy immediately turned to anxiety. Would the news reach the shogun in time for her family’s death sentence to be cancelled? And where was Masahiro?

  “Isn’t anybody trying to stop her?” Lady Nobuko asked, incredulous.

  “Yes,” the maid said. “There’s a boy on the tower with Korika.”

  The news sent Reiko flying out the door. The boy had to be Masahiro. The soldiers would be after him. And if the wall had collapsed, the tower could, too. Fearful for the baby but frantic to rescue her son, Reiko ran through the deserted palace grounds. She was winded by the time she reached the gate. Her back ached as she hobbled down the passage, toward a babble of voices. Around a curve, priests and mourners jammed the long, straight, descending passage. They faced away from her, looking up. Reiko’s gaze followed theirs along the jagged, ascending line of the wall on their left. All that remained of it was a narrow ridge. The tower rose dark against the blue sky. Its skeletal wooden framework enclosed two small figures dressed in white. Masahiro and Korika stood near the sheer drop.

  Fright spurred Reiko down the passage. She drew a breath to cry, That’s my son! Let me through! Then she saw troops in the procession, among them men assigned to guard her family. They massed below the tower, shouting at Masahiro and Korika. They apparently didn’t want to risk climbing up what was left of the collapsed wall, and the wall on the other side of the tower was too high. If they saw Reiko, they would arrest her. She turned and ran in the opposite direction. She must find a way to make Korika surrender, to save Masahiro.

  A strong contraction cramped her belly. Wincing, she followed the passage around the hill to a plank gate set in a partially restored wall. This was one of several temporary shortcuts through the castle, which the workers used during the construction. Reiko pushed open the gate. She limped down a flight of wooden stairs that led between trees and rocks. Through another plank gate she entered a passage on the lower level. A painful twisting, sinking sensation in her belly frightened her. She had to stop and rest; her heart was beating so hard. She was so weak, she fell through the gate to the official district.

  Trudging along the main street, past new mansions and some half built, past closed gates and empty guardhouses, Reiko met no one. Everybody had gone to the funeral. The wall on the hillside above her came into view. The section to her left was tall, clad with stone, intact. The section to her right was a spill of earth topped by a rim of stones. Above the rim Reiko saw the heads of people standing in the passage. The tower base rose between the intact and collapsed walls. Its wooden framework resembled a giant birdcage. Masahiro and Korika stood at the edge of the base. He extended his hands to her while she gazed down at the ground. The tower was even higher than Reiko had thought.

  Lungs heaving, heart pounding, Reiko held her belly while she trudged toward the tower. A contraction came upon her, more painful than the last. She bent over, moaning.

  * * *

  “PLEASE DON’T JUMP!” Masahiro begged.

  “Why not?” Korika sobbed. “It wouldn’t hurt as much as burning.”

  Not only did Masahiro need her to confess to the shogun, but his impulse was to save her even though she was a murderess. He had to keep her too busy talking to jump. “How do you know it won’t hurt as much?”

  Korika shook her head. She wiped her hand across her wet eyes. She gazed longingly at the street below. “It would be quicker.”

  Unable to dispute that, Masahiro said, “If you come with me and talk to the shogun, I’ll tell him you didn’t really mean to hurt Yoshisato, you set the fire by mistake. He’ll pardon you.”

  His words sounded unconvincing to himself. Korika’s woeful glance said she didn’t believe them, either. Desperate, Masahiro appealed to her mercy. “Unless you talk to the shogun, I’ll be burned to death. So will my father, and my mother, and my little sister.”

  The thought of Akiko screaming while she went up in flames upset Masahiro more than the thought of his own death. “Please!” he said, extending clasped hands to Korika. “We’ll all die unless you help us!”

  “I don’t care.” Korika stepped so close to the edge that the toes of her white socks and thong sandals hung over the drop.

  * * *

  OUTSIDE THE MAUSOLEUM, Lord Tsunanori brandished his sword at the soldiers. They drew their swords. The people in the crowd gasped. Sano shouted, “Lord Tsunanori! Put down your weapon!”

  Lord Tsunanori and the soldiers sprang into frenzied motion. The
ir yells were drowned out by screams from the crowd. It was so swift, Sano couldn’t tell who’d attacked first.

  An instant later the soldiers stepped back, looking stunned. Lord Tsunanori lay bleeding from cuts all over his body, the largest on his midsection. His sword was by his hand, its blade clean. His eyelids stretched so wide that his pupils looked like black dots painted on round white pebbles. His mouth gaped in a wordless howl.

  The audience moaned. The shogun turned, ran from the gory sight, bent over, and spewed vomit. Yanagisawa and Ienobu rushed to his aid. Ladies fainted. Servants fussed over them. Sano rushed to Lord Tsunanori. Kneeling, he pressed his hands against the daimyo’s stomach, trying to stanch the flow of blood. His fingers slid into a cut so deep that he felt hot, slippery innards. The wound was beyond repair, mortal.

  “What else do you want to say?” Sano asked urgently. Neither Lord Tsunanori nor he had long to live. He grabbed Lord Tsunanori’s hand.

  It was cold from shock and blood loss, but the fingers clenched Sano’s with fierce strength. Lord Tsunanori gurgled as he breathed. His eyes communicated his agony and terror. His face was already white. His lips, grayish blue, moved in a wordless plea.

  “I can’t help you, I’m sorry.” Sano didn’t like to pressure a dying man, but he wanted the whole truth about the crime. “This is your last chance to finish your confession.”

  Lord Tsunanori wrung out his voice between gurgles. “Wouldn’t have … thought of it … myself.”

  “Thought of what?”

  “Smallpox.” Lord Tsunanori grimaced; his body stiffened in a spasm of pain.

  “Who gave you the idea, then?”

  Lord Tsunanori moaned. His robes and the ground under Sano’s knees were soaked with blood, which still poured from his gut. “Ienobu.”

  Shocked, Sano looked toward Ienobu. The man hovered by the shogun. The crowd assailed the gate, trying to flee the carnage. Yanagisawa shouted angrily. Troops ran about, trying to restore order. Nobody was listening to Sano and Lord Tsunanori.

  “Ienobu gave you the idea of infecting your wife with smallpox?” Sano asked.

  The grip on Sano’s hand loosened. Lord Tsunanori whispered, “He knew about Namiji. He said she could do it and not get sick. He said … if Tsuruhime were to die of smallpox, nobody would ask questions. Once he gave me the idea, it wouldn’t go away, it sounded so good.” His eyes burned briefly with indignation as he gazed up at Sano. “Nobody was supposed to know!”

  Just as Sano had suspected earlier, Ienobu had been involved in Tsuruhime’s death. He’d exercised his strange effect on Lord Tsunanori. Although Ienobu hadn’t touched the smallpox-infested sheet, he was just as guilty as Lord Tsunanori and Namiji. Now Sano understood the true scope and monstrousness of Ienobu’s crime.

  In order to clear his path to the head of the dictatorship, Ienobu had had Tsuruhime murdered. It wasn’t much of a mental stretch for Sano to believe Ienobu was also responsible for the fire that had killed Yoshisato. He’d eliminated Tsuruhime first, because although he’d perceived her as less of a threat, she’d been the easier target. Ienobu had engineered each death, benefited from both, and done the dirty work for neither.

  Lord Tsunanori’s face relaxed. His eyelids half closed.

  “You can’t die yet!” Sano cried. “You have to tell the shogun that his nephew killed his daughter and his heir!”

  Lord Tsunanori was also Sano’s only chance at exoneration.

  One last spasm wracked Lord Tsunanori. He emitted one last, weak moan, one last gout of blood. Sano felt the animating spirit fade from his body.

  “Come back!” Sano dropped Lord Tsunanori’s hand, shook him, and pounded his chest in a futile attempt to revive him. But Lord Tsunanori was gone.

  No one except Sano had heard his last testimony.

  Drenched in blood, Sano rose. Yanagisawa pointed at him, shouting, “Arrest him!” Soldiers rushed in his direction. Sano’s reprieve was over, the machinery that would destroy him set in motion again. Hopelessly seeking an escape, he heard a roar of voices outside the walls. It came from a great distance and grew louder, like a tidal wave coming. The flow of talk along the funeral procession had reversed direction. The roar burst into the mausoleum compound.

  “The shogun’s wife’s lady-in-waiting confessed to setting the fire!” “Sano is innocent!”

  Yanagisawa listened, his expression filling with horror and rage. The soldiers paused, looking to him for new orders. The shogun raised his green, befuddled face. The mourners stared at Sano.

  As his mind reeled with astonishment, Sano ignored the crowd, the shogun, and Yanagisawa. His eyes sought one man. He met Ienobu’s deliberately bland gaze.

  42

  A HIGH-PITCHED RINGING, like wind chimes, roused Hirata. Lying on his stomach, he felt cold, jagged rock pressed against his cheek. Breathing sulfurous fumes, he coughed. His body was a constellation of pains, the worst one in his right arm, which was twisted under his chest. Rolling over, Hirata opened his eyes and saw only blackness.

  For a terrifying instant he thought he was blind. Then light paled the black after-image of the explosion. Vision returned. The woods surrounded him. His head pounded. He lifted his right hand to it, then yelled and stopped because of the pain in his arm. He felt the arm with his left hand. Jagged bone poked through the skin above the wrist. It must have broken when he fell. He touched his head and found a plum-sized knot. Blood wet his fingers. He looked toward the clearing.

  Sunlight filtered through smoke. Scattered green flames burned fallen leaves on the ground. Where the bonfire had been was a black crater ringed with charred sticks and earth clods. Between Hirata and the crater, a human shape lay facedown.

  Tahara.

  His clothes were burned to smoking tatters. His exposed back, legs, and neck were red, blistered, and studded with black cinders and twigs from the bonfire. His topknot was burned to a frizzle. His hand still clutched his sword. He didn’t move.

  Cautious relief trickled through Hirata, but he mustn’t assume Tahara was dead. He sat up, swaying dizzily. The deep exhaustion that always set in after strenuous combat permeated him. Cramps contracted every muscle. Pain vibrated every nerve as his body purged the poisons that had accumulated inside it. Gasps pumped chemical fumes from his lungs. Foul sweat leaked from his skin. He crawled, right knee, then left knee, then left hand, holding his broken arm against him. He inched toward his sword, which lay between him and Tahara. The ringing in his ears faded. As he struggled to lift the sword, he heard rustling noises from the pit.

  Kitano and Deguchi.

  Hirata walked on his knees toward the pit. He dragged the sword, which felt as heavy as if made of stone. Thrusting one leg after the other took all his strength. Each time his kneecap hit the ground, his arm and the knot on his head throbbed. When he reached the pit, a hand slowly rose from inside it and clamped onto the edge. Another hand followed suit. A face appeared between them. Blood and grime overlaid its mesh of old scars. Kitano gasped out, “I killed Deguchi.”

  Hirata looked into the pit. At the bottom Deguchi lay amid blood-soaked leaves and sticks. His eyes, their glow extinguished, stared vacantly. His throat was cut.

  “Too bad for you,” said a voice from behind Hirata.

  Hirata looked over his shoulder. Tahara struggled to his feet; his legs buckled, but he remained upright. His face was bruised, his nose bleeding.

  “That didn’t go quite the way you planned.” His swollen lips managed to smile.

  Horror worsened the weakness that crippled Hirata. His ally was dead. His last trick had failed. He was alone with his two enemies.

  Kitano groaned, pulling himself out of the pit. He collapsed with his legs inside it and his upper body flat on the surface. Tahara moved toward Hirata, wobbling as if swamped by ocean waves. The effort pulled his smile into a grimace. His arm trembled as he brandished his sword. This was the weakest condition in which Hirata had ever seen Tahara and Kitano, his best chance to kill them.
But Hirata was even weaker. Swinging at Kitano, he toppled on his stomach. Kitano crawled from the pit. Tahara fell. They lay gasping on the ground. Hirata hoped they were too exhausted to kill him. Then Tahara lifted his shaking hand and pointed.

  Across the clearing, a lumpy cloth sack levitated. It flew jerkily to Tahara. Hirata exerted his mind against it, in vain. Tahara fumbled the sack open, pulled out an oil lamp and incense burner. He lit them with a flame he rubbed up between his finger and thumb. He and Kitano began chanting.

  Hirata whispered, “Stop. No.”

  Tahara and Kitano chanted louder, faster, gaining strength from the spell. Hirata tried to block the sound from his mind and hold his breath. But their combined will overpowered his. The sweet, rank incense smoke penetrated his lungs. His voice involuntarily uttered the chant. He found himself on the Sekigahara battlefield, kneeling among the corpses. Ravens swooped down from the mountains, lured by the stench of death. General Otani materialized in front of Hirata. He wore his horned helmet and black armor. His face was disfigured by leprosy sores, fierce with rage.

  “You disobeyed me,” he said in his booming voice. “You betrayed your comrades. Now you will suffer the consequences.”

  Terror bit deep into Hirata. General Otani must have no further use for him, no reason to spare him. If he was killed while in a trance, he would die for real. He groped for his sword. His hand touched mud. The sword hadn’t accompanied him into the trance, but his physical infirmities had. The pain in his arm doubled him over. He was too feeble to stand.

  General Otani raised his armor-gloved hand. Distant hoofbeats thundered. Two mounted soldiers galloped across the battlefield, one from either side of General Otani, heading straight for Hirata. As they drew near, Hirata recognized Tahara and Kitano. They wore armor that matched General Otani’s. Poles on their backs flew banners that bore his crest. They raised chain-mailed arms and waved swords. They howled as their horses trampled corpses.