Laura Joh Rowland - Sano Ichiro Samurai Detective 01 - Shinju

by Shin

  "Stop!" the merchant screamed. Blood spurted from his nose. "You win! I surrender!"

  The merchant's friends tried to fend off Raiden's assault, but the wrestler turned on them. Suddenly the crowd became a turbulent mass of flying fists, kicking legs, and thrashing bodies. Men yelled insults, uttered cries of pain.

  "Stop!" Sano shouted. The crowd's noise drowned his voice. He tried to draw his sword, but bodies pressed against him, making movement impossible. If only he'd stopped the match when he'd had the chance!

  This was the real danger of street-corner sumo. Not that a wrestler would get hurt in the unrefereed matches-although many did-but that violence would break out among the audience. A crowd could quickly become a mindless killing tool, a sword flying free of any controlling hand. Now the spectators ran for safety. Sano saw the drummer go down and get trampled under the pounding feet.

  Fortunately the two doshin chose that moment to remember their duty. "Break it up!" they shouted. "Everybody go home. Fun's over!"

  Poking and prodding with their jitte, they dispersed the crowd. One of them called his assistants to pick up the wounded men. Sano, standing in the shelter of a teahouse doorway to avoid being driven off with the rest of the crowd, watched the other doshin stroll over to Raiden, who stood in the center of the ring.

  The wrestler's mysterious rage seemed to have passed as quickly as it had come. Now his face wore a dazed frown. Blinking in apparent befuddlement at his departing audience, he called halfheartedly, "Any more challengers? Who among you is brave enough to face the mighty Raiden?"

  No one was. The doshin extended his hand to Raiden, palm up. Raiden sighed, then bent to pick up the coins from the ring. He counted half the money into the doshin's hand. The doshin smirked and walked away, jingling the coins. He didn't notice Sano, but then he would hardly expect to see his superior in a place like this.

  So Raiden paid the doshin to tolerate his matches and keep order at them. Sano shook his head, knowing he must reprimand his subordinates during the next report session. The outcome of the fight could have been much worse: Men had died during such matches and the riots they provoked. Cautiously he walked over to Raiden, who now stood alone in the ring, scratching his crotch with one hand as he examined the coins he held in the other. The wrestler looked harmless enough now, but would his rage resurface?

  "Not even enough to eat on," Raiden complained. "Why did those doshin have to go and break up my match?"

  Had he forgotten that he'd attacked a helpless man and started a riot? Confused and wary, Sano nevertheless decided to take advantage of the situation.

  "Let me buy you a meal," he said. Raiden might be more amenable to answering questions-and less likely to erupt again- if plied with food and drink.

  Raiden's pout dissolved into a sunny smile. "All right," he agreed with an alacrity that told Sano he was used to accepting handouts from strangers. Probably he lived on them. That he performed on the street meant he had no daimyo sponsor or other source of steady income.

  Sano waited while Raiden donned his kimono, along with the shoes, cloak, and swords that had been lying in a heap outside the ring. Then the two of them walked down the street to the noodle restaurant.

  The place was little more than a roadside food stall. Its sliding doors stood wide open; only a short blue curtain hanging from the eaves protected it from the outdoors. Inside, along the left wall, a strip of earth floor led through the small dining room to the kitchen, where two women toiled amid steam and smoke over a charcoal stove. Their huge cauldrons sent forth the enticing odor of broth made with garlic, soy sauce, miso, and scallions. An old man dressed in a blue cotton kimono and headband stood behind the counter that partially divided the dining room from the kitchen. A few lucky diners knelt on the raised plank floor in front of the counter with their bowls and chopsticks, but the rest sat on the floor's edge, with their feet either in the kitchen corridor or the street. Sano and Raiden went inside and approached the counter.

  "Two house specials." Raiden, who, from the bows and nods he got from the proprietor and customers, seemed to be a regular, gave their order. "And plenty of sake."

  The special turned out to be kitsune udon, "fox noodles," named for the mischievous fox spirit whom everyone blamed for their troubles. The thick white noodles bathed in rich brown broth and topped with a crusty golden square of fried tofu were the spirit's favorite food. Sano noticed that Raiden's bowl was twice as large as his own, and the bottle of sake enormous. He handed over his money, thinking that detective work was getting expensive. The Nius' funeral gift, the trips to Yoshiwara, the theater ticket, and now feeding a wrestler added up to as much as he'd formerly made in a week of tutoring.

  With some difficulty, Sano and Raiden cleared a space for themselves on the edge of the floor. Sano found himself jammed between the counter and Raiden's massive bulk. But at least the heat from the kitchen and from the sweaty wrestler kept him warm.

  Raiden shoveled noodles and tofu from bowl to mouth with his chopsticks, pausing between bites to deliver bits of monologue.

  "It's a shame that a great wrestler like me has to fight for zeni in the street, don't you think?" Slurp, gulp. "Living hand to mouth like a common beggar! Well, let me tell you, stranger, it wasn't always this way for Raiden."

  Sano couldn't help staring at Raiden's hands. They seemed oddly jointless, like the hands of people in wood-block prints. The fingertips, which ended in tiny, spatulate nails, bent almost all the way back with each movement. Sano wondered how such weak-looking hands could have the strength necessary for sumo. Or for killing two people and carrying their bodies to the river?

  Raiden paused to fill his cup with sake and drain it with one swallow. "Two springs ago, I was the top wrestler in Lord Toru's stable. I had fine living quarters in his estate, ten apprentices to serve me, and all the women I wanted. The best food, and as much of it as I could eat. 1 fought the best men and defeated them all. The shogun himself praised my skill."

  Surely an exaggeration. If Raiden had been a top wrestler, Sano would have heard of him, but he hadn't. And Lord Toru was one of the lesser daimyo. His wealth amounted to a fraction of the Nius`, hardly enough to maintain a luxurious sumo stable. Besides, the shogun's interests tended toward Confucianism and the arts, not popular sport.

  "A great life, don't you think?" Raiden said, downing another cup of sake. A certain wistfulness in his voice told Sano that the wrestler was bragging just as much to bolster his ego as to impress. Sano could pity him, even as he remembered Raiden assaulting the merchant.

  Raiden emptied his bowl and signaled the proprietor to bring him another. Sano reached in his cash pouch for more money. "But Lord Toru dismissed me because I picked up the master-of-arms and threw him against the wall. Unfair, don't you think? After all, I didn't really hurt the man. He lived. And I didn't mean to do it. Ever since I hurt my head in a match a while back, there's been a demon living inside it, making me do awful things." He touched his temple and added sadly, "That's how I got my name: `Thunder and Lightning. ' I strike anywhere, anytime, and when I do, everybody had better get out of the way."

  Raiden, apparently a man used to dominating the conversation, showed no interest in Sano. Other than his habitual "don't you think?" he asked no questions. Sano ate in silence and let him ramble on. Identifying himself would only inhibit the careless flow of confidences, and Raiden was telling him plenty without the least urging. Already he'd learned that the wrestler was short on funds and had a consistently volatile temper. Both these qualities would make him dangerous prey for a blackmailer like Noriyoshi.

  Now Raiden launched a tirade about the hardships of his life: poor food, greedy landlord, disrespect from other wrestlers. Sano decided it was time to guide the conversation to a more relevant subject.

  "Did you hear about the artist who committed shinju?" he asked. "Noriyoshi, I think his name was."

  Raiden stopped eating long enough to give Sano a wary glance. "Maybe," he said casual
ly. He sucked a noodle into his mouth and wiped his lips on his sleeve. But a sudden jerk of his body at the mention of Noriyoshi had already belied his nonchalance.

  "You knew him?" Sano prodded.

  "Maybe." Raiden's tone remained casual, but he began to chew with a savage intensity.

  "You didn't like him?"

  Raiden said nothing. Sano waited. He didn't think the garrulous wrestler could remain quiet for long. And he was right. Raiden hurled his empty bowl out the door and shouted, "I hated the miserable scum!"

  His body tensed, and his flaccid hands balled into fists. His face darkened the way it had just before he'd attacked the merchant.

  Sano saw the other diners staring at them. A few got up and ran out of the restaurant. Surreptiously moving his hand to his sword, he said, "Easy now, it's all right," in what he hoped was a soothing tone. Even after such a brief acquaintance, he could recognize the signs of an impending rampage. Could he stop the wrestler before he hurt someone?

  Then, to Sano's amazement, the tension left Raiden's body, and his face went blank. He blinked, shaking his head as if to clear it, and gaped at Sano without apparent recognition.

  "I'm sorry," he said in a fuzzy voice. "Were we talking? Did you just ask me something?" He looked down. "Where's my bowl?"

  Sano allowed himself to relax tentatively, relieved that Raiden's dangerous mood had passed. "We were talking about Noriyoshi," he said, hoping the name wouldn't provoke another outburst. "Why did you hate him?"

  Raiden frowned in bewilderment. "Did I hate him? Oh, yes, I guess I did. Because he got me thrown out of Lord Toru's stable. The master-of-arms wouldn't have told Lord Toru that I broke discipline and almost killed him. He didn't want to lose face. But Noriyoshi was there that day, delivering some paintings. He saw the whole thing. Told me that if I didn't pay him a thousand zeni a week, he would tell Lord Toru. I didn't have the money. He talked; Lord Toru dismissed me. Terrible, don't you think?"

  Sano felt less satisfaction at learning Raiden's motive than he'd anticipated. Raiden seemed to have no control over his demon. He was capable of killing on a moment's impulse during one of his sudden rages, but had he the wits to arrange a double murder that looked like suicide?

  Both Kikunojo and Raiden had readily admitted that they'd been Noriyoshi's blackmail victims. But if Kikunojo's link with Niu Yukiko seemed weak, Raiden's was weaker still. Upper-class samurai women never attended public sumo tournaments, let alone the street-corner matches. Even if social events had brought Yukiko into contact with the Torus, Raiden's association with them had ended almost two years ago. What circumstance could have linked Noriyoshi and Yukiko and united them with Raiden the night of the murder? Intuition told Sano that a direct connection between Noriyoshi and the Niu clan must exist, that it provided the motive for the murders. So far, however, he saw nothing.

  "Have you ever fought a match against Lord Niu's men?" he asked.

  The proprietor had brought Raiden a third bowl of noodles without being asked, perhaps to forestall another violent episode. "Sure," Raiden said as he dug into it. "The tournament at Muen-ji." The Temple of Helplessness, built on the burial site of the Great Fire's victims, was a popular site for public spectacles. "Three years ago."

  "Have you met his daughters? The eldest one, in particular- Yukiko?"

  "Heh, heh, heh." Raiden ground his huge elbow into Sano's side. "Know what you're thinking. But no. The daimyo never let us near their women. They don't trust us. A pity, because some of them. " He began describing the charms of the women, whom he'd only seen from a distance.

  Sano thought he was telling the truth. He had none of Kikunojo's intelligence or acting talent to help him lie easily and convincingly. That he did have a careless mouth and little instinct for self-preservation was obvious. He hadn't bothered to find out who Sano was or why he was asking questions, and his lewd remarks about Lord Toru's women would earn him a harsh punishment if they reached the wrong ears. Sano finally had to interrupt his rambling discourse.

  "Are you glad Noriyoshi is dead?" he asked.

  Raiden emptied the last of the sake into his cup. "I'm not sorry. But there's at least one person even less sorry than I. I wasn't the only one he blackmailed, and from what I hear, he got a lot more money out of the other fellow."

  "You mean Kikunojo, the Kabuki actor?" Sano asked.

  The wrestler gave him a puzzled look. "Him, too? Didn't know that. No, I was thinking of someone else."

  "And who is that?"

  "A member of a very powerful clan," Raiden answered. For the first time, he looked around furtively and lowered his voice. "I don't know which member, and I won't say the family name, but-"

  Bending over, he drew on the dusty ground with his chopstick. He produced a picture far less skillful than any of Noriyoshi's, but Sano easily recognized its subject.

  It was a dragonfly crest, insignia of the Niu clan. Here at last was the connection between Noriyoshi and the Nius.

  Chapter 11

  Lady Niu hesitated outside her son's door, holding a tray that contained a lacquer box, matches, a few long wood splinters, and a bay-bark candle. Anxious to see Masahito, yet dreading their encounter, she balanced the tray on her hip and knocked. No answer came. She heard only the distant chanting from the family Buddhist chapel, where the priests were holding a vigil over Yukiko's body. But Lady Niu could sense Masahito's presence, as strongly as if she could see him through the translucent paper windows set in the wall. She slid the door open and entered.

  An icy gust of wind assaulted her, and she uttered an exclamation of dismay.

  Masahito knelt, his back to her, facing the open window. Although the chamber was almost as cold as the garden outside, he wore only a thin white silk kimono. His feet were bare. When Lady Niu crossed the floor to stand beside him, she saw that his face wore the rapt expression of deep meditation-eyes half closed, lips parted, he seemed unaware of his shivering body, or that the cold had raised bumps on his bare arms. His chamber reflected the austerity and lack of comfort he preferred in his surroundings. Plain white plaster covered the walls; a frayed tatami with its edges bound in common black cotton lay on the floor. He wouldn't allow her to supply him with furnishings more in keeping with the rest of the house. He slept on the same worn and flattened futon he'd had for years, and he used charcoal braziers only in the coldest weather. Despite his father's wealth, Masahito lived like a monk, as if he wanted to see how much suffering he could withstand. Fearful for his health, Lady Niu walked over to the window and closed it.

  "Mother!"

  She whirled at the sound of his voice, almost dropping the tray. "Masahito. I've come to give you your moxa treatment. We'll have to hurry; it's almost time for Yukiko's funeral." She and the other women had already put on their white mourning kimonos for the procession to the temple, hut he still needed to change into his black ceremonial robes. She added, "I wish you wouldn't leave the window open. The draft will give you a chill."

  He regarded her with an unsmiling stare as frigid as the room. "I told you never to enter my chamber without my permission, Mother," he said.

  His disapproval gripped Lady Niu's heart like a physical pain. Masahito-her precious only son-had been born after years of hoping and praying for a child. She loved him more than she'd ever loved anyone else, showering gifts and attention upon him throughout his life. But more often than not, he repaid her with hostility. She'd heard the servants whispering that she'd spoiled him because he'd been born with a crippled leg, and now his soul was crippled as well. Yet how else could she compensate him for being the youngest son-and child of a daimyo's second wife- excluded from the succession by birth and from his father's favor by his deformity? Even her position as a Tokugawa cousin and member of the Fujiwara family that had dominated the imperial court in ancient times couldn't give him the status he deserved. She suppressed the urge to fuss over him, to wrap him in warm clothes. To do so would provoke more harsh words.

  She said cautious
ly, "I am sorry. Does your leg pain you?"

  As soon as the words passed her lips, she regretted them. His leg did hurt. She, who knew him so well, should have seen the signs invisible to anyone else: the tension around his mouth, the faint shadows under his eyes. Even the room's icy discomfort should have told her. She remembered how, as a child, he would hold his hand dangerously close to a candle flame. When she snatched the hand away and demanded why he would do such a foolish thing, he said, "It makes me forget my leg." Today other worries pressed in on her, and she hadn't observed him with her customary care.

  Now Masahito sighed impatiently. "I'm fine, Mother," he said. But he carefully unfolded his legs and extended them straight before him in preparation for the treatment. Although she knew the effort hurt him, his expression didn't change. He never betrayed his pain, making himself walk without a limp and without using a cane even when he thought he was alone. He drew his kimono back as far as his groin. The left leg was sturdy and muscular, its flesh smooth and unmarked. The right was brittle and weak-looking, with healed scars and raw sores marring the withered thigh.