“Well, I guess business has been a bit slow. The actors get part of the money the people pay, and they’ve been grumbling about it. I guess many women used to be in the show, but they’re gone now. The only woman we have left is her,” Goro pointed with his chin at the young girl on the stage. “She used to help the other women get dressed, but she says she’s an actress.”
Kaze shared some of the samurai view of morality. It was his heritage. But after years of wandering and countless contacts with peasants and other commoners, he understood that the earthy values of the heimin also had a place in society. Still, Kaze didn’t quite approve of women onstage. He was sure that if this Kabuki got popular, the Tokugawa authorities would eventually ban women completely. As in Noh, the stage was the realm of men, even if they were playing the parts of women.
“In fact, that girl, Momoko, is helping us to build up business for the theater.”
“How?”
“We’re going to hand out leaflets to tell people about our big show. We had a woodblock cut with the information about our theater.”
“What did it say?”
Goro looked sheepish. “I don’t know. I can’t read. I just had a woodblock man put down what he thought would get people to the show.”
Kaze shook his head. Kaze wondered how many potential patrons couldn’t read, either. Goro and Hanzo didn’t seem prepared for any business venture.
The couple onstage seemed done with their rehearsals. The girl came off the stage and walked to Goro and Hanzo, apparently wanting to discuss something. In her tight kimono, she walked with the tiny, shuffling steps dictated by the wrapped cloth. Kaze judged her to be in her midteens. She used a wig and some makeup to look older, but her youthful features couldn’t be masked. She was not pretty. She had a tiny pug nose, a mouth that was too wide, and a short neck; the exact opposite of classical beauty, which called for a straight nose, a small mouth, and a long, swanlike neck.
As she walked up to the three men, her gaze fixed on Kaze. Her steps slowed, and her eyes widened. She reached the men and stood before Kaze, mute, obviously taken with him. Kaze knew that some women found him attractive, but the girl’s blatant fascination made him uncomfortable. He tried to ignore it.
“This is our friend,” Hanzo said.
“I am Saburo,” Kaze said. Goro and Hanzo looked surprised at the false name, but, for once, they kept their mouths shut.
“I am Momoko,” the girl said. Momoko gave a deep bow. Kaze merely nodded in return, as was proper, considering the difference in their ages and social class.
“Excuse me. I didn’t realize you had a guest,” Momoko said. It was obvious she did realize it and had come forward only to get a better look.
Momoko thought he was thirty or so. He was obviously a samurai, probably a ronin, but he wore only a single sword. It was the long katana sword. He did not have a wakizashi, the samurai’s “keeper of honor,” the sword used for both close-in fighting and to commit seppuku, when necessary. His intense eyes were crowned by expressive eyebrows that made a definite V shape, and he had high cheekbones and a firm jaw. His skin was brown from an extended time outdoors. His expression was serious, but there was a small smile on his lips that made Momoko think he had a sense of humor.
Momoko was used to actors, who tended to be self-involved and vain. This samurai seemed to have no pretensions, and she could tell that her close scrutiny of him made him uncomfortable, not puffed up with the pride men sometimes had when they were attractive to women.
“I, ah, I’ll come back later, when you’re done with your discussion.” She addressed this to Goro and Hanzo, but her eyes were fixed on Kaze. She turned and went back to the stage and the backstage area behind the curtain.
When she left, Kaze said, “Tell me, is there a back entrance to the theater?”
“No, Samurai-san.” Goro looked surprised. “Why do you ask?”
“I am interested in the Little Flower Whorehouse, which is on the opposite side of this block.”
“Are you, ah, a patron of that place, Samurai-san?” Goro was being discreet, at least for him.
“No,” Kaze said. “But I am interested in seeing how its building is laid out.”
Goro found the samurai’s interest in the architecture of a whorehouse peculiar, but he had already found this particular samurai different from others of his ilk, and he didn’t pry.
Have you found this Matsuyama Kaze yet?” Yoshida looked at his chief captain, Niiya, with a scowl.
“No, Lord, we have not. We are searching everywhere. If he is in Edo, we will find him.”
“Do you understand how important it is that we find him?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“It is a task that the Shogun himself has given me, Niiya. If I do it properly, other important tasks will follow. With Nakamura-san gone, there is no natural successor for the Shogun’s favor. Others understand this, and many daimyo are now trying to bring themselves to Ieyasu-sama’s attention. If I bring the Shogun the head of this Matsuyama Kaze, then my place in the new government will be assured. Do you understand what that means?”
“Yes, Yoshida-sama.”
“Good. Have each district captain talk to every gambler, merchant, and entertainer. This Matsuyama Kaze is staying someplace in Edo, and someone must know about it. Do it quietly, however. This man will be hard to kill, and it will be easier if we can do it with surprise. Spread the gold around. Don’t be stingy. Tell them that there is a thousand-ryo reward just for information about where he is. Tell them there’s a ten-thousand-ryo reward if they bring us his head.”
“Ten thousand ryo?” Niiya actually gasped.
“Yes. I have a golden opportunity to place myself in Ieyasu’s favor, and I won’t let mere money stand in the way of that opportunity. Someone will tell us where he is if the reward is big enough.”
“Yes, Yoshida-sama!”
Okubo’s hands trembled with excitement. He looked at the sword merchant. “If this is not genuine, it will go hard with you,” he said.
The merchant masked his feelings and simply continued unwrapping the object. He unfolded the cloth and revealed the daito, the extra long sword, twice as long as a regular katana. It was normally used from horseback, but it could also be used on foot by a man who had trained with it. “I assure you, Okubo-sama, that it is a genuine Muramasa blade. Finding any sword made by Muramasa is getting extremely difficult, and finding the long-bladed kind favored by you, great Lord, is almost impossible. As you know, the Tokugawas destroy Muramasa blades whenever they can. The blades made by Muramasa have a special enmity for the house of Tokugawa, even though Muramasa blades were made at least two hundred years ago. Ieyasu-sama’s grandfather, Kiyoyasu, was killed by a Muramasa blade. Both Ieyasu-sama and his father were hurt by Muramasa blades. And when Ieyasu ordered his son Nobuyasu to commit suicide because he suspected his loyalty, a Muramasa blade was used to remove his head.”
“I know of this history,” Okubo said curtly. Now it was his turn to mask his feelings. It was precisely this enmity toward the Tokugawas, not the fine craftsmanship, that caused Okubo to covet a blade made by the master swordsmith Muramasa.
The man took a piece of tissue and used it to hold the sword’s scabbard. Using another piece of tissue to hold the sword’s hilt, he slowly removed the sword a small way from the scabbard and moved it about, letting the light play off the polished surface of the blade. There was a protocol for a formal sword viewing, and the man followed it exactly, removing the blade slightly more and once again showing its beauty. He never completely removed the blade from the scabbard, because it would be an impolite gesture to have a totally naked blade in the presence of a daimyo.
Okubo reached out and took the sword from the merchant. He touched the sword’s hilt directly, not using the tissue. If he touched the actual blade, he would use a tissue, but for now he just wanted to get a feel for the blade and its weight.
“I can feel the power of this sword,” Okubo said in wonder, more to him
self than to the merchant. He drew the blade out from its scabbard. There was no convention of politeness that prohibited a daimyo from showing a naked blade before a merchant. Only when in the presence of another daimyo or the Shogun himself was a daimyo prohibited from drawing a sword.
“I, ah …” The merchant looked uncomfortable.
“What is it?”
“Well, Okubo-sama, you have already noted the unusual power found within Muramasa blades. They hunger for blood. But, great Lord, I would not feel comfortable unless I warned you that this power can have an effect on the owner of the blade, as well as the blade’s victims. Muramasa blades have been known to drive their owners to rash action. They have been the ruin of more than one owner, and some swear they are unlucky. They have even been known to, ah, drive owners to madness.”
Noting the look on Okubo’s face, the merchant hastily added, “I have no fears selling this blade to a man of such exceptional strength and character as yourself, of course.”
Okubo returned the sword to its scabbard. “My head of household will pay you,” Okubo said.
“Thank you, Okubo-sama! Thank you.” The merchant placed his hands on the tatami mat and bowed until his head touched the mat. Okubo waved the merchant away. When the man left the room, Okubo took the sword out of its scabbard and placed it before him. The polished blade gleamed with a cold malevolence. He stared at the long ribbon of steel. He could feel the hate and death radiating off the surface, filling the room with insanity. With such a blade, one could bring to closure a lifetime of enmity. One could aspire to any height, achieve any aim. One could even become Shogun.
Okubo shook his head, as if recovering from a dream. Perhaps he was already insane, he thought, daring to think thoughts that were forbidden and deadly.
Honda was also staring at something, but in this case he felt no power emanating from it. It was a simple, earthenware teacup filled with the frothy, bitter brew that resulted when tea was prepared in the formal way.
“Is something wrong, Honda-sama?”
Honda looked sharply at his companion, the man who had prepared the tea with nonchalant elegance. He was too sensitive to the moods of the people around him to make a man like Honda feel really safe in his presence.
“No, nothing,” Honda said gruffly.
But, of course, there was something wrong. What he was engaged in went against his entire life. He was a rough warrior, and offering his life and services to the Tokugawas was the twin star that guided his actions. Now he was doing something that made him feel embarrassed and ashamed. Yet, with the changing order of Japan, he believed that he had to do this, and that he would have to change, too.
The Gods knew that Ieyasu-sama had changed. Honda was with Ieyasu almost from the beginning, when Ieyasu was a youth scratching to retain control of his own fief, buffeted by more powerful daimyo on all sides of him. Initially, Ieyasu had been cautious to a fault. They even invented a proverb about Ieyasu, “tapping on a stone bridge,” to show his extreme caution in all things. He knew his limitations and refused to exceed them.
Then, as his fortunes changed, his attitude changed, also. Now it seemed like he accepted the awesome title of Shogun as something owed him for his years of struggle, scheming, and planning. But Honda knew the life of a man, any man, could be ended with a sword stroke, so all things of this earth were ephemeral. It didn’t even take a sword stroke; Ieyasu had almost been assassinated by an unseen gunman sitting in a fire tower. True, there was no chivalry in such a killing, but Ieyasu would be just as dead if the bullet hit him, regardless of the conventions of bushido, just as Nakamura was dead. Honda snorted.
“Did you say something, Honda-sama?”
Honda looked up from his tea. He held the cup in two hands, one hand on the bottom, the other cupping the side, in the proper fashion. Despite his present circumstances, he wanted to show he was not a complete barbarian. “No,” Honda said. He put his teacup down. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get on with it.”
CHAPTER 9
Inky water that
mirrors only the surface.
What lies underneath?
Welcome, welcome!” The gap-toothed man at the door gave an oily bow, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as Kaze and the vegetable merchant entered. The merchant had insisted that he treat Kaze to a drink to thank him for his help with the gamblers, and Kaze had seen no graceful way to avoid his landlord’s unwanted generosity.
The building looked like a large house, and there was no sign on the front. Like many buildings in Edo, it had a ramshackle, hastily built look to it. Much of the town was being reconstructed from whatever lumber and materials were available. The wood joinery, normally so meticulous and carefully fitted by Japanese carpenters as they put together a house like a giant puzzle, was sloppy and ill-fitted, because so much of the construction was done by inexperienced craftsmen. Only the rich, like the new daimyo flooding the city, could afford real craftsmen.
In the entry, Kaze took off his sandals and stepped up to the board floor. He was carrying his sword, having given up even the pretext of not being a ronin. After his encounter with the gamblers, it was obvious to the vegetable merchant and his household that he was not just a street entertainer.
“Just a drink tonight,” the merchant said.
The man with the gap teeth, who wore a perpetual, if insincere, smile, led them into the depths of the building. Behind one of the ratty shoji screens that lined the hallway, Kaze heard the rattle of dice and a thump as the wooden dice cup was slammed to the mat in the room. A small shout escaped from a group of men as the cup was removed to reveal the results.
“Whose establishment is this?” Kaze asked.
The merchant gave a weak smile but didn’t otherwise respond.
Oblivious to the merchant’s discomfort, the gap-toothed man said, “This is Boss Akinari’s place, Samurai-sama. Here you’ll find the cheapest sakè and the fairest dice in all of Edo. Please enjoy yourself and come back. Your friend is a regular here. Most of our customers are regulars. That’s because they know that Boss Akinari always runs a fair game.”
Kaze looked at the merchant with one eyebrow raised. The merchant gave him a sick smile. The merchant had more than just a drink on his mind when he invited Kaze. Obviously, he was testing the waters to see if the arrangement he made with Boss Akinari’s men was valid and to see if he was still welcome at the gambling house. He had brought Kaze along to provide some protection.
The man slid back a shoji screen. It looked no different from any of the others in the hallway, but in this room were a half-dozen men drinking instead of gambling. Kaze and the merchant found an unoccupied spot on the tatami mat and sat facing each other. They blocked out the others in the room, as Japanese are trained to do, creating their own private space in a crowded environment.
Kaze and the vegetable merchant ordered sakè, and the gap-toothed man scurried off. Soon he was back with an iron kettle filled with hot water. In the water were two porcelain flasks. He put the kettle down and handed the two men sakè cups; small porcelain saucers, decorated with a chrysanthemum, done in blue paint. The merchant filled Kaze’s cup with sakè and, in the Japanese manner, Kaze returned the compliment and filled the merchant’s cup.
As they were drinking, the shoji screen slid open and Nobu stuck his head in. The big wrestler looked around, apparently just checking things in the room. When he saw Kaze and the merchant, he seemed surprised. He dipped his head in a greeting, then gently closed the door.
In a few minutes, he returned. He walked up to Kaze, who looked at the large man with a quizzical look.
“Boss Akinari would like to talk to you,” Nobu said.
“Me?” Kaze asked, puzzled.
“Yes. I told him about you, and he wants to have a drink with you.”
Kaze shrugged and got up. The merchant also started to get to his feet, and Nobu put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down. “No. Just the ronin,” he said.
Kaze was led through the building to the back. The hall was just like the entrance, lined with nondescript shoji screens. Nobu slid a screen open.
Sitting alone in a dimly lit room was a large man in a blue kimono. He wasn’t as big as Nobu, but his bull-like neck and massive arms proclaimed him a man not afraid to use physical force to implement his will. His head was shaved, in the manner of a priest, and he wore his kimono open, as you might on a hot summer’s evening. Across his chest was a blue tattoo that outlined, in meticulous detail, the scales of a dragon. The tattoo showed clearly that this was no holy man. This type of tattoo was favored by palanquin porters and toughs, and the man sitting in the room didn’t have the bowed legs of a porter.
The man looked Kaze over carefully. Boss Akinari was surprised that the ronin was just of average height. He expected a bigger man, considering how the ronin took care of three of his best men.
“Sit down. Have a drink,” Boss Akinari said gruffly.
Kaze shrugged and sank to the mat.
As Boss Akinari handed Kaze a sakè cup and started to fill it from a flask, Nobu slid the shoji shut.
“I hear you gave my men a bad time,” Akinari said, not bothering with the polite pattern of introduction.
Kaze took the cup and dipped his head in thanks. Then he took the bottle and poured Akinari’s drink.
“It was more a lesson in manners,” Kaze said.
Akinari gave a snort. Kaze couldn’t tell if it was a laugh or comment. He sipped his sakè.
“That’s good stuff,” Akinari said, as Kaze took a drink. “Not the swill I serve to customers. After a few drinks, they can’t tell the difference, anyway.”
Kaze didn’t respond. The sakè was better than what he was drinking with the vegetable merchant, but it was not top quality. Either Akinari didn’t know the difference, or someone was cheating him on the sakè he was being sold. Maybe both.
“I wanted to talk to you to make sure my arrangement with the vegetable dealer will go smoothly,” Akinari continued.
Kill the Shogun (Samurai Mysteries) Page 7
