Outrageous!” Yoshida was in a rage, all semblance of control gone. “A master craftsman and his entire household slaughtered! Four samurai confront one unarmed man in the garden, and the man disarms one of them and gets away. The man attacks me, cutting the reins of my horse as easily as he could have cut me, and no one stops him. He steals one of our horses, and three samurai can’t catch him. Fools! What kind of samurai are you? I should have the lot of you slit your bellies, and kill your families, too, just so your stupidity won’t be perpetuated in our clan!”
The entire party of samurai he took to Inatomi’s house were lying before him, literally prostrate on their bellies to show their remorse. Three had bandages on their feet to cover the burns, and one of these had his wrist bound tight in a splint. The captain had his head bandaged, with fresh blood still soaking through. Another samurai, one of the riders, had made an involuntary groan as he prostrated himself, his back twisted by his fall from his horse. The only man missing from the party was the one who’d had his side slashed. The doctors said he was too ill to move, although they did say he would live. It was amazing how much carnage one man could inflict on a party of trained warriors.
“I will commit seppuku to atone for the failure on myself and my men,” the captain said.
Yoshida snorted. “You truly are an idiot,” he said with contempt. “You men know what this devil looks like. If you kill yourselves, then we’re left with no men in our clan who know this old man.”
“Yoshida-sama,” the captain said, “I don’t think this was an old man. I think it was a much younger man dressed in the clothes of an ojiisan. Somehow he had white hair, but I’m positive it was not a man whose age matched his hair.”
Surprised, Yoshida said, “It was a younger man?”
“Yes, Yoshida-sama.”
Yoshida rubbed his chin. This was an interesting piece of news. “Do you think it could be this Matsuyama Kaze in a disguise?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Yoshida-sama, but he fought like the demon this Matsuyama Kaze is supposed to be.”
Yoshida didn’t know what this Kaze looked like. Ieyasu-sama, Okubo, several of Okubo’s officers, and a few others knew Kaze’s face because they had seen him at Hideyoshi’s sword tournament, but Yoshida had not thought to take someone with him who knew the man he was hunting when he went to Inatomi’s house. Yoshida looked at Niiya, who was also in the room, and said, “What do you think of this development, Niiya?”
Niiya shook his head, surprised. “It’s amazing. Still, if the man at Inatomi’s was Matsuyama Kaze, it makes for an interesting twist.”
“Yes, it does,” Yoshida agreed. Then, looking at his cowering samurai, Yoshida said, “As for you, get out of my sight. Don’t slit your belly in the mistaken belief it will reduce my anger. I need men who know the face of this devil; otherwise I will have to depend on someone like Okubo-san to identify this man when we finally take his head. After all the embarrassment this man has caused us, I want to be able to settle this affair myself, without help from others. I want to present Ieyasu-sama with this man’s head, and I want to make sure I give him the right one. Now get out!”
The samurai pulled themselves into a kneeling position and scooted out of the room backward, bowing the entire time to show their contrition.
Niiya walked over to the opening the samurai exited from and slid close the screens for privacy. He approached Yoshida, and Yoshida said, “Ieyasu-sama will be interested to know that it might have been Matsuyama who slaughtered Inatomi and his household. Okubo-san mentioned that the ronin had done something similar in Kamakura.”
Niiya nodded his head, and said, “We have another interesting bit of news.”
“What is that?”
“The other night, when Matsuyama escaped us by jumping into the canal, a man going to his privy in the middle of the night caught a glimpse of a strange figure. It was a man, soaking wet. The man only got a brief glimpse, but it could be this Matsuyama.”
“You never found the body in the canal?”
Niiya’s face burned red. “No, Yoshida-sama. I was sure I hit him. I never miss what I aim at, but I guess it was not a serious hit.”
Yoshida said nothing about Niiya’s assertions about his marksmanship. He had seen enough evidence to know Niiya was not just boasting idly. Instead, he asked, “Where was this man?”
“In Ningyo-cho.”
That afternoon it started to rain. Kaze had abandoned the horse at the edge of Edo. It would either find its own way back to its stable or a patrol would find it. Now he stood on the street, watching the Little Flower Whorehouse carefully. He was still in the disguise of an old man, in a rain-soaked and threadbare kimono. Rain dripped down the sloping sides of his peasant’s hat, forming a watery curtain that hid his face. He had wanted to find another disguise, but he felt none of the other costumes in the theater would pass muster on the street. They were suitable for a stage performance in the flickering glow of paper lanterns, but they didn’t look realistic in the daylight.
The Little Flower was tough to solve. It had only one door, and there seemed to be a servant guarding that door constantly. Kaze would get a glimpse of someone just in the doorway, occasionally letting vendors in who delivered food, sakè, and other supplies. Kaze could, of course, force his way into the house, using his sword, but that wouldn’t tell him if the girl was there, or where she might be located in the house.
There seemed to be no outside windows, although Kaze was sure that the house would have screens that opened into inner courtyards for ventilation and light. By getting on the roof, Kaze could enter the courtyards, but he would again have the problem of knowing if the girl was there and where she was kept.
It was a difficult problem, and one Kaze decided he would have to think about some more. He shuffled off down the street, returning to the Kabuki theater. As he walked away, another figure watched him intently. Kaze was very good about knowing his environment, sensing when he was being watched and when enemies were near. But the watcher was also good. Extremely good.
His entire life was devoted to both keeping out of the eye of those who might hunt him, and keeping track of those he would hunt. His natural excitement at having spotted Kaze was tempered by his knowledge of how truly dangerous this man was.
When they received the commission, the men assigned to the task studied a drawing to identify Kaze. It wasn’t a portrait in the conventional sense, but a sketch of Kaze’s face drawn to highlight points of identification. Did his earlobes join the head, or did they hang free? What was the exact shape of his jaw? What was the curve of his eyebrows? With a few strokes of the brush, a ninja who had seen Kaze at Hideyoshi’s sword tournament was able to create an identification drawing. The Koga clan, like all ninja clans, tried to remember the faces of the men of exceptional fighting ability, as well as the faces of the great daimyo. The former were likely to be with the latter, and a ninja had to identify both.
In addition to eyes, the ears of the ninja extended everywhere, especially in a busy city like Edo. The man already knew of the dripping wet man spotted in Ningyo-cho. He also knew of Yoshida’s encounter with an old man of exceptional fighting qualities at Inatomi-sensei’s house. He surmised that the two might be the same: a young man disguised as an old.
Therefore, he was already looking for an old man when he passed the ojiisan standing in the rain. There was much one could do with clothes, posture, and gray hair to give the appearance of an old man, but no one could disguise their hands. Another, not trained to the state of alertness of the ninja, might have missed the fact that the old man’s hands were much too young for the wet gray hair peeking out from the straw peasant’s hat. Even fewer would notice that the hands had the calluses of a swordsman. Yet a glance at the old man’s hands as the ninja passed him told him that the muscular ojiisan standing in the rain was not what he appeared to be.
Showing extreme caution, the ninja followed Kaze down the wet street.
CHAPTER 15<
br />
The actor in us.
We play parts throughout the day,
sometimes on purpose.
Hanzo rushed into the theater. He made his way past the half-empty floor and up to the stage, going behind the curtain. “All of Ningyo-cho is blocked off!” he exclaimed to Goro and Kaze. “Soldiers are going from building to building, searching them!”
“What are they looking for?” Goro asked.
“Obviously, me,” Kaze said.
The two peasants looked at the ronin with wide eyes. “If you were going to collect on that reward, now is the time to run to the soldiers and tell them I’m here,” Kaze continued. “If you help conceal me, you will become conspirators with me, and will be putting yourself in as much danger as I’m in.”
The two peasants looked at each other. Peasants were supposed to be masters of guile, and Kaze knew from contact with them that most peasants could be secretive and ruthless. These two seemed incapable of guile, however, and Kaze could see a whole range of emotions stream across their faces: surprise, fear, greed, uncertainty, and, finally, resolve.
“You are the only samurai who has ever treated us like men,” Hanzo said. “All others of your class have treated us as creatures lower than the beasts in the fields.” Looking at his partner, Hanzo said, “What do you say, Goro? Let’s help Kaze-san.”
“Hai! I agree!”
Hanzo looked around. “Maybe we can cover you with some of those costumes and baskets,” he said. “We can do it in a private corner when the actors are busy putting on their costumes.”
Kaze shook his head. “No. Under a pile of baskets or costumes is the first place they’ll look.” He glanced over at the low chests of makeup used the by actors. “I have a better idea.”
The squad of soldiers marched down the street, two or three of them breaking ranks to check each shop and house. Darkness had fallen, and the street was illuminated by the warm glow of torches and lanterns. The soft yellow light clashed with the hard reflections thrown off by spear blades, armor plate, and drawn swords. The curious gathered on the street to gape at the unusual sight. Curious or not, each person, whether on the street or in a building, was looked at by the soldiers. If a man of the right age and build was discovered, he was led to a nearby group with one of the soldiers who had seen Kaze at Inatomi’s house.
A runner approached the leader of a squad marching down the street toward Goro and Hanzo’s theater. “Anything to report, sir?” the runner asked.
The captain shook his head and winced. It was the officer whom Kaze had hit with the stick, and his atama, his head, still hurt. “No. Tell Yoshida-sama we haven’t found anyone suspicious yet, except the usual collection of whores and gamblers.” The runner scurried off to report as the squad approached the theater.
“Ka-bu-ki,” the captain read off the cloth banner over the door. “What’s that?”
“This is where the loose women were dancing, sir. Remember? We closed them down two weeks ago. They’ve reopened with new owners. I looked at them, and they seem to be doing some kind of plays, but none of the women are dancing lewdly.”
“Women onstage!” The captain shook his head, uncertain of what was becoming of the world, then regretted it. He held his head steady for a few seconds, until the dizziness and pain subsided. “I’ll take a squad in here myself. I know what the dog looks like, and it will be easy for me to identify him if he’s hiding here.”
The captain entered with a half-dozen spearmen. In the lobby, he met a nervous peasant who apparently was the manager or owner of the theater.
“Your name?” the captain demanded.
“I am called Hanzo, Captain-sama.” Hanzo bobbed up and down so low his head almost hit the ground. As a peasant, Hanzo didn’t have a last name. Only samurai and nobles were afforded the privilege of a last name. Watching the constant bowing of the peasant made the captain’s head hurt more. He aimed a well-placed kick at the peasant, hitting his leg and causing the fool to land with a yelp on the floor. Not bothering to see the result of his kick, the captain led his men into the theater.
The theater was sparsely populated. The floor was covered with a grid of low wooden walls, no higher than a man’s calf, forming box seats. Only a few of the boxes had people in them, sitting on tatami mats. Although the theater was nearly empty, the patrons who were there seemed fascinated by the action on the stage. Most of the boxes had food of some sort, either bought at the theater or carried in by the audience, but not a bite was taken, because all eyes were on the stage.
There a man and woman were center stage, with a shamisen player and tsuzumi drum player to the side of the stage, providing a musical counterpoint to dialogue being declaimed by the two actors.
The woman was dressed in a gaudy red-and-yellow kimono, and her face was covered in white makeup, with high, arched eyebrows painted on her forehead and painted red lips; redder than the brightest red tsubaki, camellia. She was kneeling on the stage. Even with the makeup, the captain could see this was no beauty, and he surmised that the women who were dancing lewdly at the theater had moved on to other, and more direct, occupations. Still, even though she wasn’t a beauty, there was something in the way she held her body and tilted her head that gave the captain the impression that she was strangely attractive. The pose of her body made the captain understand that she was playing a well-born young maiden.
The ability to communicate age and station in life with a few subtle gestures was extraordinary, but it was the other man onstage, dressed as a monk, who riveted the audience, and for good reason. The man wore a wig with black hair wildly flying up, and his face was painted pure white, like the maiden’s. On this white face was painted a bold pattern of black lines, intended to show the deep wrinkles of an old man. It was a surprising and flamboyant makeup, unlike anything the captain had seen before.
The monk shuffled across the stage, looking up to the sky and sniffing the air.
“Lo, these many years I have stayed in the mountains,” the monk declaimed. “I was brought to the mountains by my revered Sensei when I was but a child. He taught me the holy sutras and the ways of the ascetic. I have never known the company of others, save for the few men who have visited me on this mountain. I have lived a holy life, pure and chaste, and far from the temptations of the flesh, and I know little of the ways of men. It has been a lonely life, and one without company, save for a few wandering monks and an occasional woodcutter.”
The soldiers stepped over the low walls that made up the box seats in front of the stage. Surprised patrons looked up as the soldiers methodically went from enclosure to enclosure, looking each patron in the face to make sure none matched the description of Kaze. The performance didn’t stop, and if the actors and musicians were surprised to see the soldiers in the audience, they didn’t show it.
The monk crossed the stage and stumbled across the kneeling woman. Reacting in surprise, the monk looked at the audience and said, “But wait, what kind of man is this? His face is fairer than any other I have seen. His hair is long and thick and silky and it smells of flowers. His kimono is colorful but oddly shaped and soft. He is unlike any other man I have seen in my lonely mountain retreat. Who are you, stranger?”
The maiden made no reply and modestly hid her face. A few members of the audience snickered, and even the captain smiled.
“Now this is a strange fellow!” the monk continued. “I wonder why he is so oddly shaped and lumpy. Could he be concealing something under his robes? I must investigate!”
The audience started giggling as the monk walked up to the maiden and stood behind her. She maintained her silence, demurely looking at the ground.
“Can you tell me why you are here, stranger? Are you fleeing someone, or perhaps you are lost?” the monk asked. The girl remained silent.
“Well, then perhaps you will not object if I search you, to see what you are carrying under those robes. Those objects may give me an idea of who you are and why you have disturbed the solitude of
my mountain.”
The monk bent and placed a hand on the maiden’s neck. He looked up at the audience. “This is interesting. The stranger has skin as smooth and fragrant as the petals of the botan. It is not rough and coarse as my own skin or the skin of other men.”
He dipped his hand into the maiden’s kimono, cupping a breast. “Unusual! This man has a large lump growing on his chest!” He shifted his hand as the audience broke into laughter. “There are two lumps on this strange man’s chest! Whatever could they be?”
After fondling the maiden for a moment, the monk said, “More and more puzzling! There are tiny nubs on the tips of these mounds of flesh, hard as pebbles and curiously pleasing to rub!” Even the soldiers searching the audience kept glancing up at the stage, laughing along with the crowd.
“Ah, by the Gods, I must investigate this situation further!” The monk dropped to one knee so he could insert his hand deeper into the maiden’s kimono.
“Yes, this man has a flat stomach with no further lumps, but it is soft as a downy futon and not hard as my own is. Now to investigate further!” The monk pushed his hand even deeper into the kimono of the woman and assumed a look of total shock and befuddlement, the outrageous makeup on his face amplifying his amazed expression. The audience was near tears from laughter.
“Oh terrible fate! Oh calamity! This man must have been the victim of a dreadful accident! Deep in his groin I feel the proper hair of a man, but the poor fellow is missing his chinchin!” At the use of childhood slang, the audience burst into a new wave of laughter. The soldiers had stopped even making a show of questioning the audience, and were standing around, looking at the stage and laughing.
Kill the Shogun (Samurai Mysteries) Page 13
