The Incense Game: A Novel of Feudal Japan

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “This is a bad gash,” the doctor said. “It will require stitches.”

  He held an ice pack over Sano’s scalp to numb it, then began sewing. Sano clenched his teeth against the pricks of the needle and the tugging of the thread. Then the doctor set to work on Sano’s back. He picked out particles that the blast had driven into the flesh and washed the cuts. Sano winced at the sting of alcohol. After the doctor applied an herb poultice to the cuts and bandaged them, the dizziness and nausea abated enough for Sano to open his eyes. The doctor held his hand in front of them and said, “How many fingers do you see?”

  Sano’s vision was blurry. “Two,” he guessed.

  “Just as I suspected,” the doctor said. “You have a concussion.”

  “What does that mean?” Reiko asked anxiously.

  “His brain was jarred inside his skull.”

  “Will he be all right?”

  “Yes, if he rests in bed for a few days.” The doctor held a cup near Sano’s mouth and placed a bamboo straw between his lips. “Drink this. It will ease the pain and help you sleep.”

  The sweet wine, astringent herbs, and bitter opium made Sano gag, but the pain soon dulled and drowsy warmth spread through his body.

  “I’ll leave medicine for you to take later,” the doctor said before he left.

  Masahiro came running into the room. “Father, are you all right?”

  “Yes.” Sano felt weak and helpless. He hated to worry his family.

  “Can you tell us what happened?” Reiko asked.

  Sano described the events that had preceded the explosion. “It was a bomb. Someone threw it onto the veranda. I heard him running away.”

  “I heard a loud bang,” Reiko said. “I thought it was a gun.”

  “So did I,” Masahiro said. “I heard it in the shogun’s house.”

  Detective Marume entered the room. “I found these in the wreckage.” He held out his hand. On his palm were small, curved, sharp ceramic fragments—the remains of the bomb, the container that had been filled with gunpowder.

  Another memory surfaced in Sano’s mind. “I felt something lurking outside. It must have been the person who threw the bomb. But I thought I was dreaming. I was so tired.”

  “I have men searching the area,” Marume said.

  “He’s probably long gone.” Sano pounded the bed with his fist, angry at his negligence. “I should have investigated!”

  “Never mind,” Reiko said, although visibly shaken by their close call. “Let’s just be glad you’re going to be all right.”

  Sano was newly aware of how vulnerable they were without the walls that had once enclosed them. He said to Marume, “Put guards around the house day and night. And up the hill to watch from above.”

  “I’ve already done it,” Marume said.

  “Who threw the bomb?” Masahiro asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sano said, “but I have an idea.”

  “Maybe Yanagisawa is up to his old tricks,” Reiko said.

  “Maybe,” Sano said. “He’s back. He put in an appearance at court today.”

  “I saw him,” Masahiro said. “He’s made friends with the shogun again. Ienobu didn’t like it.”

  Sano thought of Ienobu, and Kato Kinhide, and other men he’d clashed with, who would like to see him gone. “But I don’t think it’s a coincidence that this happened while I’m investigating the murders.”

  “Could it have been one of the suspects, trying to prevent you from finding out that he’s guilty?” Reiko said.

  “One of the suspects or somebody associated with one of them,” Sano said.

  “It couldn’t have been Madam Usugumo or Lord Hosokawa’s daughters,” Masahiro said. “They’re dead.”

  “I’m fairly certain that it wasn’t Mizutani, the incense master,” Sano said. “He’s a commoner. He doesn’t have access to the castle.”

  “The same applies to Korin the apprentice,” Reiko said. “Besides, he’s in jail.”

  “That leaves Priest Ryuko and Minister Ogyu,” Masahiro said.

  Something good had come out of the bombing, Sano thought. It had whittled down the list of suspects.

  “I bet it’s Priest Ryuko,” Masahiro said. “I found out something about him today. I wanted to tell you earlier, but I couldn’t get away from the shogun.” He described how he’d spied on Ryuko and learned that the man was planning a journey. “Maybe he decided to kill you so he wouldn’t have to leave.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him,” Sano said. “He’s not feeling too friendly toward me.”

  “Is he bold enough to try to kill you?” Reiko wondered. “I’ve never heard anything about him to indicate that he would resort to violence.”

  “Everyone has the capacity to resort to violence.” Sano considered his wife, his son, and himself. All of them had killed, albeit in self-defense or in defense of each other or someone else. Maybe Priest Ryuko had been desperate enough to forsake his Buddhist vow to protect all forms of life. “I’d better find out where he’s going.”

  “You’d better not do anything but rest,” Reiko warned.

  Because of the medicine, Sano felt little pain, but he was too drowsy to argue that he couldn’t postpone the investigation without angering Lord Hosokawa. “Did you learn anything about Minister Ogyu?”

  “I did,” Reiko said. “The whereabouts of his old nurse, who knows his secret.”

  Sano drifted off to sleep during her explanation.

  31

  DAWN FOUND HIRATA riding his horse along the coast of Edo Bay. The quiet ocean rippled with little waves, like shirred silk. Thin clouds laced the pale blue sky; sunlight gilded the sand where the tide had melted the snow. Seabirds wheeled overhead, swooped down, and flocked at the water’s edge. A whale spouted offshore. But the natural beauty couldn’t lighten the darkness inside Hirata. For the first time in longer than he could recall, he had no duties to perform. Sano was investigating the murders without him. The freedom was sobering, humiliating. He felt as useless as a samurai in battle without his swords.

  Before leaving town yesterday, he’d planted the letter in Ienobu’s room. He already regretted it. Ienobu was sure to show up in the garden at the designated hour, and Sano was safe for the time being, but Hirata dreaded the consequences of his actions.

  Last night he’d camped in the woods above the beach. After securing his horse and covering it with blankets, he’d collected sticks, built a fire, and eaten pounded rice cakes, dried fish, and hot tea. Then he’d wrapped himself in a quilt and performed the breathing and meditation exercise that would warm his blood while he slept. Now, as he continued his journey, he noticed something strange.

  He’d been to these parts before, but he saw nothing he recognized. The ocean had taken huge bites out of the land. The road was buried under mud and uprooted trees. Where fishing villages had stood, debris littered the beach and floated on the water. Hirata realized that the earthquake had caused a tsunami, which had washed them away. Broken dishes and furniture, planks and roof tiles covered the sand. Corpses with bones showing through rotted flesh hung in tree branches. A wave tossed up a child’s sandal. The cold sea breeze carried the reek of death. Hirata wondered if the government in Edo knew about this. It seemed as if no one here had lived to tell. Hirata felt as if he were the only man on earth. Grieving for the lives lost, he despaired of finding Fuwa, the monk whose name he’d obtained from his acquaintance at the tent camp. If Fuwa hadn’t left the coast before the tsunami, surely he’d drowned. But Hirata kept going, past the wreckage of more villages, until he reached the site where Chiba had been. There he perceived a lone human aura, a quiet but strong pulse emanating from above the beach.

  On a high, wooded bluff stood a tent made of fabric patterned in green and brown shades. Beside it a man crouched perfectly still. He rose and lifted his hand in greeting. Lean and tall, he had a shaved head and wore the hemp robes of a monk.

  “Who goes there?” he called, neither friendly nor ho
stile.

  “My name is Hirata. Are you Fuwa?”

  Caution edged Fuwa’s aura. “I am. How did you guess?”

  “A friend told me you might be here. I came from Edo to talk to you.”

  “I’ll come down.”

  Hirata dismounted. By the time his feet touched the sand, Fuwa had descended the bluff, stepping on exposed roots and rocks, as easily as if they were stairs, to stand before Hirata. “I’ve heard of you.” His face reminded Hirata of an axe blade. Cheekbones and nose curved outward; forehead and chin receded. It was wider and sharper in profile than from the front. “The best fighter in Edo.”

  Hirata shrugged off the admiration in Fuwa’s glance. “Were you here when the tsunami came?”

  Fuwa nodded somberly.

  “How did you survive?”

  “I hung onto a tree.”

  “Are you the only person in Chiba who wasn’t swept away?”

  “There were a few others. They left. Everything they had is gone.”

  “Why did you stay here?”

  “Why not?” Amusement twitched the corners of Fuwa’s firm mouth. “I’m doing what I would be doing anywhere else.”

  Itinerant mystic martial artists camped in the wilderness and liked solitude. “Well, I’m glad I found you.” Hirata offered up a silent prayer of thanks to the gods.

  “Is Edo very badly damaged?” Fuwa asked.

  “Very.” Hirata described the conditions in the city.

  Fuwa looked grave, but all he said was, “What did you come all this way to talk to me about?”

  “Some mutual friends. Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi.”

  Fuwa turned abruptly away. His axe-blade profile, backlit by the sun on the sea, was sharp and dark. “I don’t talk about them.”

  Enlightenment startled Hirata. “You were in their secret society. They swore you to secrecy.”

  Fuwa’s head snapped around. “You, too?”

  “Yes.” Hirata had never imagined that the secret society had had another member. “So you can talk to me. We’re comrades.”

  “I’m not in the society anymore.” Fuwa strode down the beach, as if he wanted to escape not only Hirata but his past.

  Hirata followed. “Did they throw you out?”

  “No. I quit.”

  “I didn’t think they let anybody quit.” Maybe there was a chance for Hirata to get out alive, too. “How did you?”

  “I walked away,” Fuwa said. “They weren’t in a position to stop me.”

  “Why not?” Hirata couldn’t imagine Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi being that powerless.

  Fuwa halted and faced him. “Why don’t you ask them?”

  “Because I don’t trust them to tell me the truth.”

  “You don’t trust them, but you joined their society anyway?” Fuwa laughed good-naturedly. “Well, I guess we are comrades. We both made the same mistake.”

  Hirata laughed, too, in relief. “How did you meet them?”

  “Why do you want to know?” Fuwa asked, still not ready to share his secrets.

  “Because I’m in trouble.” Hirata poured out the whole story of his dealings with the men. He described the ritual, showed Fuwa the ghost’s orders branded on his arm, and said that Tahara, Deguchi, and Kitano had threatened to kill his master unless he obeyed the ghost.

  “Why do you think that anything I say could help?”

  “I don’t know,” Hirata admitted. “I’m just desperate.”

  Fuwa gave him a long, thoughtful look. “They’ve left me alone all these years. I doubt if they’ll bother me even if I do tell tales on them. They’d probably rather never see me again. But they won’t like your knowing things they’ve hidden from you. It’s you they’ll punish.”

  “I’ll take that chance,” Hirata said, even though the thought of their wrath made the wind off the bay feel colder.

  “It’s your funeral.”

  They strolled along the beach together, avoiding wreckage from the drowned village. Fuwa spoke over the slapping of the waves and the cries of the gulls. “I met Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi ten years ago. I was living in Kamakura.” That city was located southwest of Edo. “I’d recently finished my martial arts training, and I was working as a bodyguard for a merchant. I was bored with my job. I had dreams of adventure. One night I was sitting in a teahouse, when Tahara, Deguchi, and Kitano came in. We got to talking. I was impressed to learn that they were disciples of the great Ozuno. My teacher is respected but not as famous. We told stories about our training. They seemed impressed with me. I was flattered. They said they were hunting for a great treasure, and they’d learned it was in Kamakura.”

  Hirata felt a stir of uneasy premonition. “What was this treasure?”

  “An ancient book. More than a thousand years old. From China. They said it contained magic spells for communicating with the spirit world. Whoever did the spells would learn incredible secrets and gain superhuman powers. They said the book belonged to a scholar who’d bought it from a Chinese sorcerer. They were planning to steal it. They asked me to help.”

  Here was a different version of the story they’d told Hirata. “And you went along?”

  “Yes. It sounded like what I’d been waiting for. They said it would be dangerous, we would have to fight for the book. Then we formed a secret society. We swore that we would be loyal to one another and never tell anyone outside about our business. We would share the book and work the magic spells together, and we would become the greatest fighters in the world.” Fuwa contemplated the clouds thinning over the sea. “If only I’d known.”

  Here was the disgraceful origin of the secret society. “What happened?” Dread almost quenched Hirata’s desire for the truth.

  “That night, we went to the scholar’s house, a shack on the edge of town. We sneaked in and found an old man lying asleep in the room, and a knapsack on the floor beside him. Kitano crouched down to open the knapsack, when the old man suddenly sat up. He wasn’t some scholar. He was Ozuno. I’d seen him before, and I recognized him. Tahara and Deguchi drew their swords. I drew mine. Ozuno said, ‘What are you doing here?’ Then he saw Kitano with his hand in the knapsack and he said, “‘Oh, it’s the spell book you want. Didn’t I forbid you to read it? Didn’t I tell you it was too dangerous?’

  “Tahara said, ‘Yes, that’s why we’re stealing it.’ He raised his sword and started toward Ozuno. Ozuno leaped out of the bed. He had a sword in his hand. Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi lunged at him. After that, it was all flying blades and shouting and bodies flying, I’ve never seen anything like it. I didn’t join the fight, I couldn’t even see who was where. All I could do was lie flat with my arms over my head and pray I didn’t get killed.

  “It was over in an instant. When I looked up, Tahara and Kitano and Deguchi were lying on the floor. Tahara was unconscious, and blood was pouring out of cuts on his chest and stomach. Deguchi’s neck was twisted, and he was clutching his throat and wheezing. Kitano’s face was covered with blood, cut up like raw meat.”

  Hirata was horrified to learn about the men’s other lies. “Kitano told me that his face had been injured in a drunken brawl. Tahara said that when Deguchi was a child, working as a prostitute, a customer strangled him and damaged his throat, and that’s why he’s mute.”

  Fuwa smiled pityingly. “Whatever else they told you, it’s probably not true, either.”

  “What happened to Ozuno?”

  “He had wounds, too, but they were minor. He was still on his feet.”

  “What did he do to you?” Hirata asked, amazed Fuwa had survived.

  “Nothing. He said, ‘Whoever you are, get out of here. Don’t tell anyone what happened tonight, and don’t come near me again, or this is what will happen to you.’ He pointed his bloody sword at Tahara, Deguchi, and Kitano. I got up and ran away as fast as I could.”

  “What happened to them?” Hirata couldn’t believe Ozuno had let them live after they’d betrayed him.

  “At the time, I
figured Ozuno had left them to die. But a few years later, I heard they’d been sighted.” Fuwa explained, “I had given up my dreams of adventure. That night was enough adventure for me. I joined a monastery and took my vows. Then I went wandering. I occasionally met other martial artists on the road. One of them told me he’d seen Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi. I don’t know why, but Ozuno had let them go.”

  Maybe he’d had a soft spot in his heart for the men he’d trained and couldn’t bear to kill them, Hirata speculated; or he’d thought they’d learned their lesson.

  “One day I ran into them on the street in Miyako. Kitano’s face was all scarred, and Deguchi gestured with his hands instead of speaking, but Tahara looked completely normal, and they all seemed as fit as ever.” Fuwa sounded perplexed. “I don’t know how they did it.”

  Hirata did. They’d used the same medicines and mystical healing rituals that had helped him regain his health after his injury. Perhaps Ozuno had even doctored the men.

  “When they saw me,” Fuwa said, “they acted as if they didn’t recognize me. I figured they didn’t like being reminded of that night.”

  Puzzlement beset Hirata as he thought of their powers, the rituals. “They managed to get hold of the book. I know they did, I’ve seen proof. But how?”

  Fuwa looked satisfied, as if a matter he’d been wondering about had been resolved. “I had my suspicions, after what happened next. And after what you just said, I figured it out.”

  “What happened next?” Hirata asked anxiously.

  “I was curious about what they were up to. So I secretly followed them. All the way to Nara.” That was a city south of Miyako, a sacred center of Buddhism. “I spied on them from outside the inn where they stayed. The next night they rode to a temple. I followed them and waited until they came out, only a few moments. They walked right up to me where I was hiding behind a bush. They’d known all along that I was watching them. Tahara said, ‘Forget you saw us. Leave us alone from now on, or you’ll be sorry.’ Then they rode off. I wanted to know what they’d done, so I stayed put. At dawn I heard a commotion. I went inside the temple and met a servant. I asked what had happened. He said that an old man who’d been staying in the guest cottage had died in the night. I had a bad feeling.”