The Incense Game: A Novel of Feudal Japan

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “What’s the real reason you came?” She handed Reiko a bowl of tea. “Did you want to see if I was still alive? Well, too bad for you.”

  Reiko sipped tea, warmed her hands, and braced herself for another fight. “I need an introduction to the wife of Minister Ogyu who runs the shogun’s Confucian academy.” Social custom prohibited calling on a stranger without an introduction from a mutual acquaintance, and Reiko didn’t want to barge in on Lady Ogyu and make her suspicious. She didn’t have the excuse of a funeral and a political connection, as she’d had with the Hosokawa women.

  “Who does your husband think she killed?”

  “No one,” Reiko said, taken aback. “This isn’t for an investigation.”

  “Spare me.” Her grandmother flicked a slender, elegant hand at Reiko. “Why else would you want to meet such a dull little woman? Why would you be interested in anyone except those murderers that you like to hobnob with?”

  “This is important. I can’t tell you why.” Reiko put on her most humble, conciliatory manner. “Please. I need your help.”

  The old woman smiled, gratified. “Lady Ogyu is my sister-in-law’s great-niece. But I won’t introduce you to her unless you tell me what this is all about.”

  “Very well. But you must promise me that you won’t pass it on.”

  “I’ll take it to my grave, which probably won’t happen soon enough for your liking.”

  “There has been a murder,” Reiko admitted. “Lady Ogyu is a potential witness. She can’t be allowed to know that I’m investigating her for my husband.”

  “Who was murdered?” The old woman leaned forward, rapacious in her curiosity.

  “A woman named Usugumo. She was an incense teacher.”

  Her grandmother uttered a scornful sound. “You’re holding out on me, child. Your husband wouldn’t bother investigating the death of one commoner, not when he’s got his hands full with earthquake problems and keeping the shogun happy. Now let’s have it!”

  Reiko had no choice but to part with more information. “The other victims were Lord Hosokawa’s daughters.”

  Shock wiped the crankiness off the old woman’s face. “Great Buddha! Now I understand. Lord Hosokawa is a very powerful daimyo. He could make trouble for the Tokugawa regime. I can imagine how badly he wants his children avenged. If your husband doesn’t find out who killed them, Lord Hosokawa could even decide to start a war.”

  Her view of the situation was so astute that Reiko blinked.

  “I’ll write a letter to Lady Ogyu, saying that I’m sending you to see how she fared during the earthquake, so that you can report back to me. That should do.” The old woman ground ink, dipped her brush, and wrote on thick white rice paper, stamped the finished letter with her signature seal, and rolled it into a lacquer scroll container. When Reiko put out her hand for it, she held it out of reach. “If I give you this, you must tell me how the investigation turns out.”

  Reiko hoped that when the investigation was finished, she would have such a good story to tell that she could withhold any dangerous parts and her grandmother wouldn’t notice. “Yes, Grandmother,” she said, taking the letter.

  18

  AFTER FINISHING HIS inquiries, Sano worked late in his office at home. He went over the day’s events with his aides. Hearing the urgent messages from officials who’d come to see him, he felt guilty and disturbed because his absence had enraged many of them. In the volatile, post-earthquake climate, hostilities bred like flies. Sano hoped he could solve the crime before he made too many new enemies. He left orders with his aides and authorized them to field requests and act as his deputies until the investigation was finished.

  By that time, most of his household had retired. A maid asked if he wanted dinner. Sano said yes; he was starving. He tiptoed past rooms crowded with his sleeping retainers. The house seemed to expand and contract with their snores. He went to the small room that served as a bath chamber, stripped, scrubbed, and rinsed. He longed for a warm soak, but there was no space for a tub. The room was so cold that while he dried himself and put on his night robe, he shivered uncontrollably. Charcoal was becoming scarce; everyone conserved it at night. He ate his miso soup and noodles and drank his tea at his desk. Afterward he hurried to the family’s chamber.

  Reiko, Masahiro, and Akiko were asleep in the bed, quilts piled on them, only their nightcaps showing. Sano climbed in between his wife and son. Reiko said drowsily, “Good, you’re home. How late is it?”

  “Very late.” Sano basked in the body heat under the quilts. He pictured other families all over Edo bedded down together. The earthquake had fostered extra closeness, one of its few blessings.

  “Did you see Priest Ryuko and Minister Ogyu?” Reiko whispered, trying not to waken the children.

  “Yes.” Sano summarized the conversations, then said, “Priest Ryuko was as upset as any cornered criminal I’ve ever seen. Minister Ogyu, on the other hand, was pleasant and cooperative.” He described the man’s physical appearance. “Which made me suspicious.”

  “So either of them could have poisoned the women?”

  “Or neither. Have you discovered anything that might help determine whether they’re guilty or innocent?”

  Reiko described her visit with Lady Keisho-in. Sano frowned as he listened to her news that Priest Ryuko and Madam Usugumo had quarreled.

  “No matter the reason for the quarrel, it does sound like Priest Ryuko had a reason to want her dead,” Sano said.

  “It sounds like Minister Ogyu didn’t.”

  “What’s certain is that I brought my interest in the crime to the attention of two powerful men and I antagonized at least one of them,” Sano said ruefully. “And the investigation is no further ahead than before.”

  Reiko murmured in concurrence and sympathy. “Has Hirata-san found out anything about Priest Ryuko or Minister Ogyu?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since he brought us Madam Usugumo’s book. He’s missing. Again.”

  Reiko was silent. Sano knew she shared his worries about Hirata’s behavior. She didn’t want to punish Hirata any more than Sano did, especially since Hirata’s wife Midori was her friend. But they both knew that the situation was coming to a head. The earthquake seemed to have that effect on many situations.

  “I’m sure he’ll be back by tomorrow with news.” Reiko snuggled closer to Sano.

  “I’m not counting on it.” Sano yearned for the old days when a master could always trust his chief retainer to act in his best interests. Perhaps those days were just a fantasy. In reality, samurai were human and their personal interests often conflicted with duty. Sano couldn’t deny his own struggle between duty toward the shogun and his code of justice and honor. “I’d better start looking into Priest Ryuko’s and Minister Ogyu’s backgrounds myself.”

  “I obtained a letter of introduction to Minister Ogyu’s wife,” Reiko said, “from my grandmother.”

  “Your grandmother? You went to her?” Sano was surprised; he’d seen how badly the old woman treated Reiko.

  “If I can learn something that helps us identify the killer, it will be worth a lifetime of her scolding and insults,” Reiko said.

  “I saw Priest Ryuko today at the palace,” Masahiro said.

  “Oh?” Sano had thought Masahiro was asleep, but of course he’d been listening to the conversation. “He’s been at Zōjō Temple leading prayers since the earthquake.”

  “He has a room in the shogun’s guesthouse. He came back this evening.” Since he’d become a page, Masahiro was a font of information. “How about if I spy on him for you?”

  “Only if you can do it without neglecting the shogun,” Sano said.

  “Um…” Masahiro said.

  Reiko raised herself on one elbow to look across Sano at their son. “What is it?”

  “I have to tell you and Father something.” Pride and apprehension resonated in Masahiro’s voice. “Today the shogun put me in charge of his chambers.”

 
“How—” Sano began so loudly that Akiko whimpered and Reiko shushed him. He was pleased that Masahiro had gained such favor, yet concerned about the ramifications. “How did that happen?” he whispered.

  “I didn’t do it on purpose.” Masahiro sounded guilty now. As he described how he’d grabbed the shogun to stop him from beating his concubine, Reiko and Sano groaned. To lay a hand on the supreme dictator was a capital offense. When Masahiro revealed that the shogun had meekly surrendered and rewarded Masahiro for teaching him how to care for his possessions, Sano and Reiko sighed in relief.

  “You don’t know how lucky you are to be alive!” Reiko said.

  “Yes, I do.” Masahiro said anxiously, “Are you going to punish me?”

  “Of course not. You did what you thought was right.” Sano was distressed because that was how he’d lived his own life, often to his detriment, and his son was following his example. He silently cursed the earthquake, which had created the circumstances for Masahiro to distinguish himself. “But you’re in a dangerous position. The shogun will expect more of you. Whenever you do something, he’ll expect more again. Sometimes your best won’t be good enough.”

  “Spoken from experience,” Reiko murmured.

  “What should I do?” Oddly, Masahiro sounded eager for the challenge as well as daunted by Sano’s prediction.

  “Be more careful than ever. And watch out for the people around you. There’s always someone who wants to knock the high chestnut out of the tree.” It was the best political advice Sano had to offer. He’d just never dreamed his son would need it this soon.

  The sound of footsteps preceded light from the corridor that shone through the lattice-and-paper wall. Sano sat up as Detective Marume appeared in the doorway, holding a lantern.

  “I just found Madam Usugumo’s missing apprentice,” Marume said.

  * * *

  AFTER A HOT bath, a hearty meal, and sleeping all day, Yanagisawa spent the evening with his chief retainer, going over his finances. They were in worse shape than he’d thought. After his demotion, his stipend had been reduced by thirty percent. Some lands the shogun had granted him had been confiscated, and he’d lost the income from the rice grown on them. During his eleven months of seclusion, his staff had worsened the situation by keeping all his retainers on his payroll and borrowing money at high interest to cover the shortfall. Yanagisawa was furious.

  “Dismiss half my army, retainers, and servants.” He hated to lose the soldiers, but he could no longer feed them. If war became necessary before he regained the shogun’s favor, he would have to rely on his allies’ support. “After that, dismiss yourself. I don’t need a chief retainer who runs me into bankruptcy.”

  Horrified that he and his comrades were to become rōnin, deprived of their income and their honor, the man said, “But where will we go?”

  “I don’t care. And don’t look at me like that. I counted on you to watch out for my interests, and you let me down. You’re lucky I don’t put every one of you to death.”

  The man blanched and scurried out of the room. Yanagisawa slumped behind his desk, his head in his hands, and gazed at the ledgers with their columns of debts and losses. He was as angry at himself as at his retainers. This was his punishment for indulging his grief.

  One of his bodyguards came to the door with the news Yanagisawa had been waiting for all day. “He’s there.”

  Yanagisawa’s second trip was even more arduous than the first. The sky had cleared, but an icy wind blew, whipping up snow, hurling it against Yanagisawa and his bodyguards as they rode through the ruined, frozen city. Without the lights that normally burned at neighborhood gates, the stars were so brilliant that looking at them hurt Yanagisawa’s eyes. The moon resembled a white skull-face. During the ferry ride across the river, waves rocked the boat; cold spray lashed Yanagisawa. Wet and chilled, he arrived at the house where his sons lived.

  Inside, his bodyguards accompanied him along dim corridors to a room where the lattice-and-paper wall glowed from a lantern within. His other guard, who’d stayed to keep watch over Yoshisato, opened the door. Yanagisawa motioned to all of his men to wait outside the house. His heart thudded with apprehension as he entered the room.

  A young man sat against the wall, his legs drawn up and his arms folded. When he saw Yanagisawa, he sprang to his feet. He didn’t bow. It was the height of rudeness. He stood with his hands on his hips. Yanagisawa put his anger aside while he and his son studied each other. Yoshisato was shorter, with a compact, wiry build. He had Someko’s wide face, rounded chin, and tilted eyes that sparkled fiercely. Yanagisawa saw nothing of himself in Yoshisato, but he felt a surge of elation, for Yoshisato was undeniably handsome; he didn’t look stupid or awkward. He might do very well.

  “Hello, son,” Yanagisawa said. “At last we meet.”

  “‘At last?’” Yoshisato’s voice was deeper and rougher than Yanagisawa’s. He combined a frown with a scornful grimace. “We’ve met before. Or so my mother tells me. But you’ve forgotten. And excuse me if I don’t remember, either. I was a newborn baby.”

  His impertinence shocked Yanagisawa, who couldn’t help being pleased to see that his son had inherited something from him—his nerve. “You’d better file the edges off that sharp tongue,” he said with amusement.

  Yoshisato seemed puzzled because Yanagisawa didn’t reprimand him, suspicious of Yanagisawa’s motives.

  Yanagisawa said, “Why did you run away when I came to see you this morning?”

  “Why do you want to see me after ignoring me for seventeen years?” Yoshisato folded his arms.

  Yanagisawa realized that Yoshisato was angry and hurt because he’d been ignored. That was why he’d run away—to spite his neglectful father. Yanagisawa was surprised; he’d not thought about whether his sons minded his absence. He did think he could use Yoshisato’s feelings to his own advantage.

  “I want to apologize.” The words tasted strange in Yanagisawa’s mouth; he rarely apologized to anybody. “A lot of things have happened since you were born. I’ve been responsible for running the government. I fought a war and lost. I was exiled. I managed to come back, but I’ve had a struggle on my hands.”

  “In other words, you were too busy for me. But not too busy for Yoritomo.”

  Hearing Yoritomo’s name spoken in such a hateful tone made Yanagisawa so furious that he wanted to punch Yoshisato. He controlled his temper, with difficulty. “I’ve given you everything you need.”

  “Food, clothes, schooling, martial arts lessons, a nice house, yes.” Rancor pervaded Yoshisato’s voice. “Good enough for a bastard. But some bastards get more than others, don’t they?”

  Yanagisawa clenched his fists. The desire to grab Yoshisato and beat him until he begged for mercy was almost irresistible. “You’re jealous of Yoritomo.”

  “Me? Jealous of my dead half brother?” Yoshisato spoke with disdain. “He followed you around like a dog, begging for your attention. Hah! Don’t make me laugh.”

  He turned away from Yanagisawa, who followed him across the room. It was outfitted with the usual tatami floor and built-in cabinets whose closed doors hid garments and bedding. Yoshisato stood by the raised study niche at the end. This contained a desk with writing supplies and paper covered with elegant calligraphy on its black lacquer surface, shelves of books, long trunks that held swords, a koto and a music stand, a globe. A constellation chart sat near a spyglass for viewing the heavens. This was the domain of an intelligent, cultured man with many interests. Yoshisato evidently wasn’t among the legion of young samurai who lived to strut, drink, brawl, and fornicate. Yanagisawa took pride in him even though he was growing angrier by the moment.

  “Yoritomo had a place at court,” Yanagisawa said, “whereas you were shunted off to the side. Of course you were jealous.”

  “Yoritomo’s place was in the shogun’s bed,” Yoshisato retorted. “That couldn’t have been much fun. And look.” Yoshisato raised his hands, waggled his fingers. “I�
�m the one who’s still alive.”

  Yanagisawa fumed. If strangling this rascal could bring Yoritomo back, he would do it in a heartbeat. “I see that we started off on the wrong footing. Let’s try again,” he forced himself to say. “I’m sorry I ignored you while you were growing up. I’m here to make it up to you. I want to be your father and your friend.” He was disconcerted to realize how much he truly wanted it. He extended his hand to Yoshisato. “Will you let me?”

  The anger fell away from Yoshisato like an armor tunic dropped on the floor. The naked longing in his eyes stunned Yanagisawa. His son wanted a reconciliation as much as he did. His heart, shriveled by grief into a cold, hard lump, started to expand in the warmth of hope for the father-son relationship he craved. It occurred to him that his son was a person whose friendship and respect was a prize worth winning. The politician in him saw his ambitions within reach. Yanagisawa smiled.

  The expression on Yoshisato’s face turned to pure loathing. He sucked in his cheeks, then spat on Yanagisawa’s hand.

  Startled, Yanagisawa exclaimed in offense. He shook the hot, wet saliva off his hand as he glared at Yoshisato. “Why did you do that?”

  “Because you insulted me.” Yoshisato fairly blazed. He stood with his knees bent and hands twitching, as if ready to reach for his swords, although he wore none. “You treat me like you think I’m stupid enough to believe you want to be my father. Well, I’m not. I know you’re just pretending.” The pain of disappointment showed through the anger in his eyes. “You just want another whore to put in the shogun’s bed!”

  Such rage exploded in Yanagisawa that he saw Yoshisato through a veil of red and black flames. He lashed out his dripping hand and smote Yoshisato on the face.

  Yoshisato didn’t try to dodge. The impact of the blow shuddered through Yanagisawa, as if he’d struck an oak tree. Pain crippled his hand. Yoshisato’s cheek turned crimson. Tears of humiliation welled in his eyes, but he stood his ground.

  “If you want a new whore, get one of my half brothers,” he said.