“Is there no one in town you trust, Sho? No one who could ask anonymously?”
Iwata shook his head, gritting his teeth against another spell of dizziness. He knew no one outside the prince’s circle. “No. But there is someone here we can ask who will keep the secret.”
Hiroshi frowned. “Who?”
“Lady Mari was a shrine maiden once. Before the prince saw her and claimed her.” Iwata remembered the day they’d ridden into the shrine, the clatter of their horses’ hooves breaking apart the peace of the holy place. And Lady Mari, sixteen years old, with shining black hair reaching to her knees. “We can ask her.”
“I didn’t know that. Here’s the physician’s room.” Hiroshi stepped forward and knocked. When the physician came to the door, he only raised an eyebrow at them.
“Lord General. Captain,” he greeted them. “Come inside; I’ll fetch my thread.”
FOR THE first time since Prince Narita had fallen ill, Iwata left without telling him good-bye. They borrowed horses from the palace stables and rode back to the inn in silence. Iwata hobbled up the steps to their room, fire burning in his leg. Hiroshi went to the kitchen to fetch tea himself, so no serving girl could hang about the door and eavesdrop. He poured the tea with practiced grace. Iwata held the cup but didn’t drink. “Your sister has been replaced, a cat puts the prince’s watchers to sleep so… what? What is it doing to him? Are the cat and the woman both serving some other master?”
Hiroshi chewed his lower lip, thinking. “The prince has grown steadily weaker since he took sick, hasn’t he? Would you say he’s grown weaker every day?”
Iwata nodded. Then Hiroshi’s meaning struck him. “You think it’s… draining him? His strength?”
“His life.”
“I’m a soldier, not a priest. I don’t deal with the spirits.” Iwata clenched his fist in frustration. “An assassin I could fight. But this? If I could find the cat—”
“Do you remember what it looked like?”
Iwata reached into his memory. Every detail of the previous night was there… except the cat. He recalled only a shadow, a shadow with mocking, gold-flecked green eyes. “No.”
“We need a priest.” Hiroshi sipped his tea.
“Lady Mari.” Iwata shifted his weight. The stitches in his leg pulled at his skin. “She’s remained devout. It wouldn’t be strange for her to be seen talking with a priest. She visits the shrines often.”
“I didn’t know she was a shrine maiden.”
“A long time ago.” Iwata and Lady Mari had never been friends; the prince and his regiment spent far too little time in town for them to have become familiar. But she was grave and dignified, and she ran Prince Narita’s household with a steady hand. Iwata respected her.
They lapsed into silence. Hiroshi drank his tea, though in the summer heat it brought beads of sweat to his face.
“I think we should look at Momo’s rooms,” he said suddenly. “Maybe we’ll find a clue there to tell us where she is.”
“No men are allowed in the consorts’ wing except the prince. Do you propose we dress as serving girls and sneak in?”
“You’d make an ugly woman. But then, so would I.” Hiroshi smiled. Iwata suspected that wasn’t true; with his delicate features, Hiroshi would have made a striking woman, scar or not. “Perhaps Lady Mari will arrange something if I ask her.”
Iwata rubbed his temple. Pain and fatigue blurred the edges of his vision. “Perhaps. We should go see her now.”
“Sho, no. You have to rest.” Hiroshi was on his feet in a heartbeat. He stepped over the table and put his hands on Iwata’s shoulders. “You’ve been up all night, and you’re wounded as well. The prince is safe during the day. Get some sleep before you go back.”
“When I return from Lady Mari, I will. I’ll be keeping watch tonight too.”
Hiroshi’s grip on Iwata’s shoulders tightened. “Again? What if the cat comes back?”
“I have another leg.”
Hiroshi frowned, anger waking in his dark eyes. He mastered it quickly. “Let me help you change clothes, then. You can’t go before the prince’s wife looking like you just left a slaughterhouse.”
The ride to the inn had set the dagger wound to bleeding again. With a gentleness that belied his ferocity as a fighter, Hiroshi cleaned around the stitches. If Iwata stiffened, he paused to rinse the cloth until the pain had eased and Iwata relaxed. He tied a fresh bandage tightly and went to fetch a clean kimono from Iwata’s trunk. Iwata closed his eyes as the sharper pain ebbed, disappearing into the dull ache that had invaded his entire body.
He woke with a start. He was still sitting up, but leaning slightly backward. Something was propping him up. He looked down. Hiroshi’s fingers were laced together across his chest, keeping him from slumping forward. Iwata had dozed off sitting up, and Hiroshi had knelt behind him, holding him to save him from falling over like a fool. Iwata squinted at the window; the sunlight had brightened considerably. “How long did I sleep?”
“A few minutes.” Hiroshi rested his chin on Iwata’s shoulder. “I was going to wake you if you slept any longer.”
He was lying. The change in light said he’d been asleep for at least an hour, probably more. He struggled to his feet, breaking Hiroshi’s embrace. Iwata turned on him, angry words ready on his lips. Hiroshi rose slowly, like an old man, flexing his stiff arms. Iwata swallowed his anger.
“Come,” he said, holding out a hand to help Hiroshi up. “It’s time we were off to the palace.”
“A CAT?” Lady Mari’s eyebrows drew together in puzzlement. “Cats are able to see the spirit world, but they rarely bother to interact with it. Or with humans, for that matter.”
“My lady, it was definitely a cat,” Iwata insisted. “I saw it, Captain Sagawara saw it, and the two soldiers saw it.”
“Yet none of you remember what it looks like.”
“No.”
Lady Mari gazed past him, her eyes far away. “I don’t believe you imagined it, Lord General. You are not an imaginative man. Perhaps you can’t remember the cat because it wasn’t a cat.”
“My lady?”
“Some spirit creatures are shape-changers. Kitsune and tanuki are known for it.”
“Foxes,” Hiroshi said. “And raccoon-dogs.”
An approving smile touched her face. “Yes, Captain.” She turned back to Iwata. “I’ll consult the master of Edokawa Shrine. He is a wise man.” She rose. The interview was over.
“Lady Mari,” Hiroshi said quickly. “I apologize, but I have one more favor to ask.”
“What is it, Captain?”
“I would like to examine my sister’s rooms. I believe there may be a connection between this… this spirit creature and Lady Kumomo.”
Lady Mari regarded him. Iwata watched her. Beside him, Hiroshi stared rigidly at the floor. After a tense moment, something softened around her eyes. “That was difficult for you, Captain. I have no idea what this cat could have to do with Lady Kumomo, but my husband has trusted the Lord General with his life for many years, and he hasn’t failed him yet. Tomorrow, at the Hour of the Monkey, I’ll order the consorts to have tea with me.”
Hiroshi raised his head. His cheeks were slightly flushed. “My lady is very kind.”
Iwata let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Thank you, Lady Mari.”
“You seem like a good man, Captain.” She gave Iwata a sharp look and left the room.
As they moved slowly through the labyrinth of corridors to the stables, Iwata commented, “You never seem to have much trouble persuading women to do what you want.”
Hiroshi laughed. It was the first time Iwata had seen him laugh since the day he visited his false sister. “I did a fair job of persuading you, once.”
“Persuading me to what?” Iwata raised his eyebrows, hoping to see Hiroshi smile again.
He did. “Persuading you to accept my concern for your injury.”
Six months before, Iwata had been breaki
ng in a new horse when a fall dislocated his shoulder. It had been a matter of minutes for the camp physician to snap it back into place, but the pain had put Iwata into a foul mood. He brooded in his tent, snarling at the officers who visited to make sure he was all right.
The last of the officers to come was Captain Sagawara. He arrived after dinner, hours after the others had been sent away with a scowl and an insult.
“What do you want?” Iwata growled.
The captain bowed, his expression unreadable. “I came to inquire after the Lord General’s health.”
“My health is fine. It’s my arm that’s in a sling.”
“The physician does good work. Your shoulder, my face.” Hiroshi gestured to his scar.
“Yes, he does. Is there anything else?”
“Some of the men are going to the pleasure houses in the nearest town. Are you going, my lord?”
“No.”
“I’m not going either. I’ve never liked paying anyone for that.”
“You might have to now. Women aren’t usually forgiving of disfigurement.”
The comment was calculated to wound, but Captain Sagawara’s expression didn’t change. He fixed Iwata with his placid gaze. He seemed to be searching for something in Iwata’s face, and suddenly the general felt ashamed.
The captain smiled. “Then it’s lucky for me that I don’t care what women think.”
Iwata turned to him, frowning. The captain was even bolder than he’d thought. Iwata sometimes heard rumors about this or that soldier fancying him, but none of them was brave enough to approach the prince’s second-in-command. “Why?”
“Because I prefer men, my lord.” Captain Sagawara offered the same affable smile, but his gaze searched.
Iwata had been as struck by Hiroshi’s fine features as anyone else when he joined the unit; even the scar across his face barely marred his looks. And he was steady, a good fighter. And brave. Very, very brave.
He crossed the short distance between them. The captain tensed, just enough for Iwata’s practiced eye to notice. He was shorter than Iwata, but only a little.
With his good arm, Iwata reached up to touch the scar where it began at Captain Sagawara’s temple. He traced it down his cheek to his lips, which parted slightly.
“Yes,” Iwata said quietly, leaning forward. “Our physician does very good work.”
And now, half a year later, Iwata glanced at Hiroshi. Nothing about him had changed, but for some new lines at the corners of his eyes. Beside him, Iwata felt very old and weary.
TONIGHT THE old soldiers were different men. The events of the previous night were known to almost no one. Iwata had told them they’d done nothing wrong. But he’d seen in their faces that they didn’t believe him. He wasn’t sure he believed it himself.
Again he set the soldiers at the windows and took charge of the door, Hiroshi at the other end. The prince slept; the physician had quietly told Iwata that Prince Narita hadn’t woken at all since the day before. Iwata sat awkwardly on the floor, staring at the prince, blinking only when he had to. Yet every few minutes he felt his gaze pulled to Hiroshi for a second or two. Hiroshi also watched the prince, his head held rigid, his jaw tight. Iwata knew he was thinking of his failure the previous night. Prince Narita had honored his sister, sent Hiroshi to school, and given him a place in the army. Surely their failure bit him more deeply than it did the others.
Hours passed in silence. The brazier flickered, filling the room with choking heat. Iwata waited for the cat.
It came as it had before, at the Hour of the Lotus. Iwata didn’t hear it. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a shadow on the other side of the paneled door. Hiroshi saw his head turn and came to his feet at nearly the same moment as Iwata. The others also rose, but Iwata motioned for them to remain where they were. He drew his sword and nodded to Hiroshi, who waited with his hand upon the door. Hiroshi flattened himself against the wall. As soon as he opened the door, Iwata stepped through. At first he thought the corridor was empty. A single lantern burned outside the prince’s door. Its dancing flame threw shadows leaping up the walls to disappear into the beams of the ceiling. Iwata froze, sudden doubt creeping into his mind. Had he only seen a shadow?
A whisper of fur caught his attention. His head snapped to the left, toward the sound. A brindled gray tail was disappearing around the corner of the corridor.
“Watch the door,” he told Hiroshi, and followed the cat.
Behind him Hiroshi said something, and the door slipped shut. Footsteps trailed Iwata down the hall. Hiroshi had never disobeyed his orders before. A flash of anger was tempered by relief. Iwata held his tongue and let him come. Hiroshi was nearly silent; between the beats of Iwata’s heart, he heard Hiroshi’s quick, controlled breathing. Nothing more.
A lantern hung at the end of the new corridor. A figure stood in front of it, cast into darkness by the light behind. Iwata pulled up short.
“Lord General Iwata?” The figure spoke. “Younger Brother?”
Iwata felt Hiroshi’s muscles knot; he thought he could hear the younger man’s teeth grind. Iwata made himself relax and sheathe his katana. But he kept his hand on his obi, where his dagger hid.
Lady Kumomo drifted toward them, emerging from the darkness into the dim light. Her face shone white as the moon. Despite the hour she was fully dressed, her hair piled in a shining mound on top of her head. “Why is your sword out, Hiroshi?”
“We’re protecting the prince tonight.” He didn’t sheathe it.
Iwata interrupted. “Why is my lady out at this hour?”
“I couldn’t sleep, my lord. My worry for my prince is too great.” She smiled sadly. Iwata peered into her face, but he saw nothing sinister, nothing false. Nothing that had not been there before.
She turned to Hiroshi, who stood just behind Iwata, his katana still exposed. “I’m sorry if I frightened you, Brother.”
Hiroshi’s eyes were black pools in the dimness. His scar stretched tight across his face. He held his sword so tightly that his knuckles were white.
Don’t, Iwata thought, his gut clenching. Don’t.
Hiroshi stared at Lady Kumomo. His fingers twitched, and Iwata gripped the hilt of his dagger. Lady Kumomo blinked at him, her face a mask of puzzlement. “Brother?”
Hiro, Iwata thought desperately.
As if he’d heard, Hiroshi breathed deeply. Woodenly he sheathed his sword.
“No,” he said quietly, his voice brittle. “You don’t frighten me.”
She stepped past Iwata, who stiffened. She smelled of incense and honey. “Poor Hiroshi. Good night.” She raised one hand and brushed his face with lacquered nails. Then she leaned up and kissed his scarred cheek. A visible shudder coursed through Hiroshi’s body. Lady Kumomo stepped back, smiling. A light flashed in her eyes; a light that shouldn’t have been there, so far from the lantern. An icy fist clutched the base of Iwata’s spine.
“Good evening, Lord General. Take good care of your prince.” She rested a hand lightly on Iwata’s arm. A spike of pain tore through his wounded thigh, pooling beneath the stitches. The agony was so intense it made Iwata’s head spin. Vaguely he felt the pressure of her hand lift, heard the rustle of her robes, saw the flicker as she passed by the lantern. When she was lost to the darkness, Iwata staggered back and leaned against the wall. Hiroshi remained in the center of the corridor, staring after Lady Kumomo. His face had collapsed into fury, disgust… hate. Iwata knew the expression well but had never seen it on Hiroshi. It cut through his dizziness into his heart. “Hiro.”
Hiroshi looked at him. Immediately his expression turned to concern. “Sho?”
“My leg,” he growled. Hiroshi crossed to him, taking his arm and propping him up. They leaned together. Iwata’s dizziness began to abate.
“It was mocking us.” Hiroshi’s voice was thick with bitterness.
Iwata said nothing. Hiroshi was right. The pain had burned down to a single point of agony; he focused on it, trying to drive
it out. Hiroshi reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from Iwata’s ear. He leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “Sho?”
“Yes, it was mocking us.” Iwata sucked in a breath, grimacing.
Hiroshi peered into his face a moment. Then he sighed. “How many times have you gotten hurt for him?”
How many? More than Iwata could recall. A broken nose protecting the prince from a drunken soldier. Crushed toes shoving him away from a maddened horse. A scar on his arm from a Yennish rebel aiming for Prince Narita. Dozens more, small and large. Iwata closed his eyes. The pain was subsiding, leaking away and leaving only the dull ache he’d grown used to. As if Hiroshi was drawing the pain out…. Weariness clutched at him. Iwata wanted nothing more than to stay here in Hiroshi’s arms for the rest of the night.
But he couldn’t leave the prince any longer, not with Lady Kumomo—the cat—the shape-changer—still loose. Iwata broke away, straightening up. The pain had receded completely. “Back to our duty, Hiro.”
“Back to the prince,” Hiroshi said softly as Iwata limped back down the corridor.
The soldiers watched them curiously but asked nothing after they returned. Iwata supposed they might approach Hiroshi later, when he was alone; the men liked him, and he had a friendliness with them Iwata had never been able to conjure. But this time, he knew, Hiroshi would tell them nothing.
They waited for the cat to return, but the rest of the hours before dawn were quiet.
“LADY MARI told me you were coming. But be quick about it, my lord. I can guarantee you no more than an hour.” The serving-woman cracked open the door of Lady Kumomo’s chamber. “Lady Hagino’s time is near, and she prefers to stay near her rooms.”
“Did Mo… Lady Kumomo seem any different to you recently?” Hiroshi paused, his hand on the door frame.
“No, Captain. Lady Kumomo is always polite. We all know every detail of Lady Hagino’s life, but Lady Kumomo is quiet. I’ve served the prince’s consorts for nearly twenty years, and she’s always been the same. As lovely as the day she arrived, as well.”
Late Summer, Early Spring Page 3