The Incense Game: A Novel of Feudal Japan

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “So it’s true,” she said in a tone that mixed dismay with curiosity. “You’re really here.”

  “Someko.” Yanagisawa was amazed because she’d hardly changed in eighteen years. Her deep red kimono clothed a figure that was still small and compact. Upswept hair studded with ornaments gleamed richly black. Her wide face with its delicate, rounded chin was unlined; her tilted eyes sparkled. Someko was as beautiful as the day Yanagisawa had first bedded her. Were he in the mood for sex, he would think her hard to resist even though he usually preferred his lovers—female or male—to be under thirty, and she was at least a decade older.

  “I want to see our son,” he said.

  “I understand. Your favorite son died, so you need one of your others.”

  Her nerve startled Yanagisawa. “Your tongue is still as sharp as a fox’s teeth.”

  She smiled, bitter as well as amused. “If my tongue is sharp, it’s because of you.”

  She’d been married to a Tokugawa army officer, and he’d stolen her from her husband, whom she’d loved, and made her his concubine. He’d tolerated her anger and her vicious remarks because they’d added piquancy to the sex. After she became pregnant, he’d provided generously for her and, later, the child; but she’d obviously never forgiven him for eighteen years of forced, lonely seclusion. She’d spent them nursing her grudge.

  Now Someko took a closer look at him and smirked. “You’ve changed, though. Still handsome as a devil, but you’re an old man.” Compassion altered her manner. “Yoritomo’s death must have been hard for you. I’m sorry.”

  Yanagisawa fought tears. “Why should you be?”

  The eyebrows painted high on her forehead rose. “I’m a mother. I couldn’t wish losing a child on anyone.” Her bitter smile returned. “But if I could, it would be you.”

  Tired of sparring with her, Yanagisawa said, “Where is he?”

  “Who?” Someko pretended confusion. “Do you mean Yoshisato? He has a name.” She spoke with rancor because Yanagisawa had ignored her child while lavishing attention on his favorite. “He’s having a martial arts lesson with his tutor.”

  She led Yanagisawa to the courtyard at the center of the estate. On the wide, paved square stood a middle-aged samurai dressed in white martial arts practice clothes, sword in hand.

  “Where is Yoshisato?” Someko asked.

  “He was here a moment ago,” the tutor said. “One of the maids came and told us that his father was here. He just left.”

  Yanagisawa realized that Yoshisato had run away to avoid him. “What a nerve he has.”

  “He takes after his father.” Someko gave a mean, satisfied smile. “I guess he doesn’t want to see you as much as you want to see him. You may as well go.”

  Yanagisawa had come here intending to pick and choose, and he himself had been rejected. He felt an unexpected pang of hurt. He missed Yoritomo so terribly that he wanted to go home and crawl back into bed. But he couldn’t let Yoshisato get away with his insolence, and he still needed a political pawn.

  “I’m going, but you can tell Yoshisato I’ll be back,” Yanagisawa said.

  13

  HIRATA PEERED DOWN at the incense teacher’s house. Incense bowls and tools, the cushions, and even the tatami mats were gone. Since yesterday the room had been picked clean by people desperate for anything they could use or sell. Hirata would have left someone to guard the scene, had he known he would be investigating the crime.

  Large white flakes sifted from the sky. It was snowing. That would certainly help the suffering folks of Edo, and if there were any clues left in the house, Hirata had better find them before the snow ruined them. He lowered himself through the hole and dropped into the room. There he discovered something he hadn’t noticed yesterday. The rest of the house tilted at a steep angle farther down into the crack. Fallen rafters and massive rocks blocked off the other rooms. Hirata put his shoulder against a rock and exerted his mental concentration and physical strength against it. The rock wouldn’t budge. No one else was around to help.

  A cheery voice called, “Hello down there!”

  Hirata looked up to see three faces around the rim of the hole. Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi peered at him. He cursed under his breath. “What do you want?”

  “You know,” Tahara said with a winning smile.

  “Forget it.” Hirata crouched, raised his arms, and sprang.

  He caught the earth at the edge of the hole. Deguchi pulled him up as if he were as light as the snowflakes that melted against his face. Kitano asked, “What were you looking for?”

  “Nothing,” Hirata said.

  Tahara’s high eyebrow lowered in displeasure at Hirata’s curtness. “You must be on an investigation.” He glanced at the sunken house. “Looks like a big job. Want some help?”

  The last thing Hirata wanted was to put himself in their debt, but he needed to get into those rooms, and he couldn’t fail Sano. “Sure,” he said. “Make yourselves useful for a change.”

  “First, let’s make a deal,” Kitano said. “We excavate the house. You do the ritual.”

  “I should have known there would be a catch.” Hirata decided that the ritual was a small price to pay. “All right.”

  Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi lined up along the chasm. Hands held out from their sides, their feet planted wide, they gazed down. “Stand back,” Tahara said.

  Hirata complied. Their aura pulsed, slow and faint, then with a force that strengthened tremendously with each throb. The humor disappeared from Tahara’s face. Kitano’s jaw tightened under the scarred skin. Deguchi’s eyes shone so brightly that Hirata almost expected their sockets to burn black. The air around the chasm shimmered, as if from rising heat waves. Hirata heard movement inside the buried part of the house. A broken rafter suddenly flew up from the chasm and landed at his feet. Hirata gaped at it, then at his companions.

  “I didn’t know you could—”

  Their attention was concentrated on the chasm. Timbers, roof tiles, wall panels, and rocks propelled themselves upward, onto a pile that accumulated on the ground. The men’s bodies were rigid, their fists clenched. Sweat dripped down their contorted, straining faces. Within moments the debris was emptied out of the house.

  “Why didn’t you tell me—?”

  Groans burst from Tahara and Kitano. Deguchi’s throat jerked. The chasm opened wider, its edges pried apart like lips separated by massive jaws. The house began to rise up from the depths. Splintered beams and boards emerged above ground level, accompanied by the noise of wood scraping against rock. Stunned, Hirata watched the house levitate, its broken plank walls and window frames and torn paper panes coming into view, then its base and stone foundation pillars. It hovered above the chasm like a corpse resurrected.

  Kitano and Tahara bellowed. A visible energy wave emanated from Deguchi’s speechless mouth. The men stepped backward. The roofless house wafted through the air toward them and gently landed on the space they’d vacated. Their aura turned off abruptly. The house crumbled into a heap of ruins. The three men bent over, hands on their knees, shaking and gasping.

  Hirata regarded them with disbelief, admiration, and envy. “I want to learn to do that. Show me how.”

  “No.” Tahara spat froth onto the ground. “You’re not ready.”

  “What do you mean? I’m one of you. Whatever knowledge you have, we should share equally.”

  Kitano chortled between gasps. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “I’m tired of hearing that. And I’m tired of your keeping secrets from me. I want to learn how to do what you just did, and I won’t take no for an answer!” Hirata put his hand on Tahara’s bent head and shoved.

  Tahara stumbled sideways and bumped into Kitano, who bumped Deguchi. They fell down, one after another, and sat on the ground, too exhausted to get up. For once Hirata was stronger than they were. If he wanted to defeat them, so that he need never fear them or take orders from them anymore, now was the time. He saw dismay in thei
r eyes as they read his thought. Then Tahara and Deguchi smiled; Kitano’s eyes crinkled with sardonic humor.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” Tahara said. “We’re the only people in the world who can do it. If we die, the knowledge dies with us.”

  “If you won’t teach it to me, why are you worth more to me alive than dead?” Hirata countered.

  A tense moment passed while he stared down Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi. At last Tahara said, “All right. We’ll teach you. After the ritual.”

  Hirata felt a thrill of triumph. The men struggled to their feet. Tahara clapped Hirata’s shoulder. “We’ll call for you tomorrow night.”

  Watching them saunter away, Hirata cursed. They had him where they wanted him. But they’d fulfilled their part of the bargain. He owed them a ritual.

  The snow was falling harder, the air white with feathery flakes that frosted the remains of the house. Sano would be expecting results. Hirata got to work. Lifting and throwing aside beams and planks, he smelled the smoke from the poisoned incense. He tied a cloth over his nose and mouth, then uncovered cabinets, tables, and lacquered screens that had been crushed during the earthquake. Shattered dishware lay among pots and utensils in what had once been the kitchen. Rain had seeped into the chasm, ruining clothes, mattress, and bed linens. In Usugumo’s workroom, fallen shelves had smashed valuable incense bowls into porcelain fragments. He found a broken scale, mortars and pestles, oddly shaped vessels, and measuring spoons. Fragrant roots, dried leaves, spices, and powders had spilled from broken ceramic urns. Hirata began to wonder if the favor done him by Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi had served no purpose but to enmesh him more tightly with them. He excavated the entire floor of the house and found nothing that seemed to bear upon the murders. He kept working because he couldn’t return to Sano empty-handed.

  He was making a final survey when the tatami gave way slightly under his foot, in what had been the bedchamber. Crouching, he pressed his hands against the mat and felt a square hole, about two paces wide, underneath. He flipped the mat and saw a compartment built into the floorboards. Inside was a small black iron trunk. The boards that had covered it had fallen inside the compartment, twisted loose by the earthquake.

  Excited, Hirata lifted out the trunk and opened the lid. Gold and silver glittered. He blew out his breath as he picked up the heavy coins strung on thick twine. This was a fortune, many times more than Usugumo could have earned by giving incense lessons. Hirata dug through the coins. Under them he found a rectangular book the size of a woman’s hand, made of cheap, off-white paper, covered with rough black cloth, and tied with black ribbon. Hirata opened the book and saw black characters written in neat but inexpert calligraphy, like a clever child’s. He read formulas for different blends of incense, the secrets of Usugumo’s trade. The last two pages contained names and dates—a list of pupils and the schedule of their lessons. Hirata replaced the book in the trunk, closed the lid, and put the trunk in his horse’s saddlebag. Maybe this clue would help repair his relationship with Sano.

  Riding away from the house, Hirata paused to look in the direction that Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi had gone, across debris piles, falling snow, toward the distant hills. What else hadn’t they told him? Hirata vowed to do what he should have done before he’d joined the society—find out more about them. Since he didn’t trust them to tell him, he must look elsewhere for information.

  * * *

  “WE NEED TO find the incense teacher’s apprentice,” Sano told Detective Marume as they rode with their troops along the highway toward the city. “As soon as we get back to the castle, you’ll organize a manhunt.”

  “All right,” Marume said.

  Sano wished Marume would show some interest in the case, some sign of his old self, but Marume rode like a sleepwalker propped in the saddle.

  Snow filled the gray air. It covered the empty streets by the time Sano and his party reached the city. Sano blinked flakes out of his eyes as he watched nature obscure the ruins. He pictured seasons passing, the trees, grasses, and vines shooting forth during springs and summers to cover stone foundations, the rains rotting wood and dissolving plaster, until there remained no evidence that humans had ever lived here. Sano felt guilty because he’d spent the morning investigating the murders when he should have been rebuilding Edo.

  In the daimyo district, he heard the muffled cadence of horses’ hooves. Through a veil of falling snow he saw an army of mounted samurai approaching. The leaders wore helmets with curved horns. Their troops flew banners from poles on their backs. The army bristled with swords, spears, bows, and quivers of arrows.

  Sano’s heart began to race with the dread and excitement that preceded a battle. His samurai blood rose up as if in the memory of other battles before he was born, those his ancestors had fought. He and his troops reined in their mounts. The army halted some twenty paces away. Sano spied the symbol on the nearest banner, a large dot circled by eight smaller dots—the Hosokawa clan crest. Lord Hosokawa lifted his hand in greeting. He left his comrades and rode toward Sano. He looked different in his horned helmet—sterner and stronger. Sano rode out and met Lord Hosokawa in the middle of the space between their parties.

  “I was on my way to see you,” Lord Hosokawa said. “To ask whether you’ve made any progress.”

  Sano glanced beyond Lord Hosokawa. He recognized the three other men wearing horned helmets. They were Lords Mori, Maeda, and Date. They acknowledged him with stiff, formal bows. Sano realized they were the daimyo who wanted to overthrow the Tokugawa regime, who were courting Lord Hosokawa’s support. They numbered among the wealthiest lords with the largest domains and armies.

  “Do they know?” he asked Lord Hosokawa.

  “About our bargain?” A humorless smile thinned Lord Hosokawa’s mouth. “No. Your finding out who killed my daughters isn’t in their interest. I haven’t told them, and I won’t.”

  “If they knew, they would sabotage my investigation so that I’ll fail and you’ll support their revolt,” Sano deduced.

  Lord Hosokawa shrugged, impatient. “Well? Is there any progress?”

  “I’ve found some potential suspects.”

  Lord Hosokawa pounced on the words like a starving man seizes food. “Who are they?”

  “I can’t tell you yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want you chasing after people to take revenge on them before I’ve ascertained whether they’re really guilty,” Sano said. “I won’t let you hurt someone who turns out to be innocent.”

  “Why do you think I would take such a rash, foolish action?” Lord Hosokawa said, offended as well as incredulous.

  “I didn’t think you would blackmail me into solving your daughters’ murders or consider revolting against the Tokugawa regime,” Sano said.

  “If you don’t tell me, I’ll—”

  “What? Tell your friends to count you in on their revolt? And start it now?” Sano’s temper flared. “Who’s going to hunt for your daughters’ murderer during a civil war?”

  “Don’t you mock me!” Lord Hosokawa glanced over his shoulder at the other daimyo waiting in the snow with their troops.

  “Are you going to ask them to kill me?” Sano said. “Do you have that much control over them?”

  “Yes, fortunately for you.” Lord Hosokawa laughed, an ugly sound of disgust directed at himself as well as Sano. Sano could see that he didn’t like the man he’d become since he’d learned of his daughters’ murders, but he was powerless to change. “Because I’m all that stands between them and the shogun.”

  He galloped back to the other daimyo. Sano sat alone, astride his horse, watching them and their troops ride off. He expelled his breath against snowflakes that smote his face. As he returned to his own troops, he happened to glance at a street that intersected the avenue. There, between crumbled walls, stood a small party of mounted samurai, watching him. Hoods and wicker hats obscured their identities, but Sano recognized the hunched fi
gure of one man.

  It was Ienobu.

  14

  REIKO CLIMBED OUT of her palanquin in the courtyard at home. The estate looked even bleaker than usual, with the snow coating the debris piles and the damaged mansion. Sano rode up with his troops, and she was reluctant to tell him what she’d learned.

  “I didn’t expect you back this soon,” she said.

  “There’s been a development,” Sano said as he leaped off his horse.

  Reiko could tell from his manner that the development wasn’t as good as he would have liked. “Is it about the incense master? Didn’t you find him?”

  “I did.” As they went into the house and hung their outdoor garments in the entryway, Sano described his meeting with Mizutani. “He had plenty of reason to hate Usugumo, and possibly enough to kill her, although I’m not certain he’s guilty. There’s still Korin, the missing apprentice. Except for him, I haven’t any other leads.”

  “I have, but I’m afraid you won’t like them.”

  “Mama! Papa!” Akiko met them in the corridor. “Come see my new house!”

  Delighted to have both parents home in the daytime for once, she seized their hands and towed them into their chamber. There she’d created a house under a table that rested atop two stacks of iron trunks. Four dolls sat on the floor in the space, miniature dishes arranged in front of them. Akiko scrambled inside and knelt by the dolls. “We’re having a party.”

  Reiko and Sano smiled. “That’s very clever,” Sano said.

  Children were better than adults at enduring the conditions caused by the earthquake, Reiko thought. They could make a game of it. Reiko described her visit to the Hosokawa estate and the animosity between Lord Hosokawa’s wife and concubine. She related the maid’s story about the rivalry between the two sisters.

  “I’m afraid that if I had to guess how the murders happened, I would say that either Kumoi or Myobu put the poison in the incense, in an attempt to kill the other,” Reiko said. “And she ended up killing herself and Madam Usugumo.”