The Snow Empress

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “I’d have thought that you of all people would have known about the bombing.” Lord Matsudaira glanced at the shogun, who looked puzzled trying to catch the drift of the conversation, then fixed an accusing stare on Sano. “Perhaps in advance.”

  “You’re mistaken,” Sano said, exasperated because this was the third time in as many months that Lord Matsudaira had accused him of something he hadn’t done. He wasn’t responsible for the bombing even though the man had reason to think so.

  Last year the folks who’d put Lord Matsudaira on top had started casting about for somebody to take him down. Sano had found himself pushed to the head of the line.

  At first he’d rejected the idea of challenging Lord Matsudaira because his duty and loyalty to the shogun extended to the entire Tokugawa clan. But Lord Matsudaira treated him so badly, always criticizing him, accusing him of treason and corruption, threatening him and his family with death. Sano had faced a choice between leading a movement against Lord Matsudaira and bowing down and giving up his post, his self-respect, and his samurai honor.

  That was no choice at all.

  Lord Matsudaira now regarded Sano with hostility, believing him guilty of the attack no matter what he said. “You might be interested to know that my guards caught the man that threw the bomb. Before they killed him, he told me who sent him.”

  “I’m sure that by the time you were finished with him, he would have said anything you wanted,” Sano said, denying that the bomber was one of his men. Now he had his own bone to pick with Lord Matsudaira. “If you’re so determined to lay blame, then consider the attack a retaliation.”

  “For what?” Lord Matsudaira said, disconcerted.

  “Some troops were ambushed and fired at by snipers eight days ago.” Aware of the shogun listening, Sano kept his speech circumspect; he didn’t say that the troops were from his own army or that he thought Lord Matsudaira responsible.

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  Although Lord Matsudaira sounded genuinely surprised, Sano didn’t believe him any more than he’d believed Sano. “You may be interested to know that the snipers were seen by witnesses before they ran away. They were wearing a certain family crest.” Yours, his look told Lord Matsudaira.

  Outraged incredulity showed on the man’s face. “The witnesses are lying. Why would one send men on a sneak attack labeled with one’s own crest?”

  “Because one didn’t expect anybody would live to tell,” Sano said.

  As he and Lord Matsudaira stared each other down, Sano felt a sense of momentum careening out of control, as if they were two horsemen tumbling down a hill while they fought together. He’d expected Lord Matsudaira to meet his opposition with due force; Sano had armed himself with a long-term strategy of building support and had hoped for a painless takeover, but the attacks were propelling them toward outright battle. His samurai spirit filled with bloodlust. He could taste both victory and death.

  “I don’t know what you’re arguing about,” the shogun interrupted, peevish because Sano and Lord Matsudaira had excluded him from their conversation. “Settle your differences elsewhere. Chamberlain Sano, I brought you here to discuss a very important matter.”

  “What would that be, Your Excellency?” Sano said.

  “It’s a report that you sent me.” The shogun fumbled at some scrolls beside the tub. “Now which one is it?”

  Yoritomo reached over, picked out a scroll, and handed it to his lord and lover. He shot a nervous glance at Sano, who pitied him. Yoritomo was a son of Yanagisawa, the former chamberlain. Although Lord Matsudaira had exiled Yanagisawa and his family, the shogun had insisted on keeping Yoritomo. Yoritomo had Tokugawa blood—from his mother, a relative of the shogun—and rumor said he was heir apparent to the dictatorship. Sano had befriended Yoritomo, who seemed alone and lost at court, a decent young man who deserved better than to be a political pawn and a target for Lord Matsudaira’s schemes.

  The shogun opened the scroll and jabbed a wet finger at the characters. “I am concerned about this, ahh, situation you mentioned.” Lately, he’d begun taking an interest in government affairs instead of leaving them to his subordinates. Perhaps he sensed how much control he’d lost and wanted to snatch it back, at this late date. “The one that involves Ezogashima.”

  Ezogashima was the far northernmost island of Japan, sometimes referred to as Hokkaido, “Northern Sea Circuit.” A vast, sparsely populated wilderness of forests, mountains, and rivers, it consisted of two domains. The largest was Ezochi, “barbarian place,” inhabited by the Ezo, primitive tribal people scattered among tiny villages. The other was Wajinchi, “Japanese place,” squeezed into the southwest corner, a remote outpost of the Tokugawa regime and its foothold in alien territory.

  “You say there is a problem with the Matsumae clan,” the shogun said.

  The clan were his vassals who governed Ezogashima, their longtime hereditary fief. In the rigidly organized world of Japan, their status was ambiguous. They weren’t traditional landholders like the daimyo, feudal lords who ruled the provinces. There was little agriculture in Ezogashima, no income from farming. Rather, the Matsumae derived their wealth and political power from their monopoly on trade with the Ezo. They took a share of the money made on furs, gold, wild game, fish, and other products exported to the south. They were looked down upon by samurai society because they blurred the line between warrior and merchant.

  Squinting at the inked characters, which had begun to run, the shogun said, “Remind me what the problem is, Yoritomo-san.”

  “Lord Matsumae didn’t show up for his attendance this year,” the youth said in a quiet, deferential tone.

  “He was due in the summer,” Sano clarified.

  The Matsumae came to Edo to visit the shogun about once every three years, less often than other lords, who came annually. This was not only because of the long distance from Ezogashima but also for political factors. Lord Matsumae was supposed to be busy defending Japan’s northern frontier, and he was so removed from the power plays of Edo that he was considered not much of a threat to the Tokugawa, which therefore kept him on a loose rein. He didn’t even have to leave his wife and children in Edo as hostages to ensure his good behavior. However, he did owe respect to the shogun. His failure to appear was a serious violation of protocol.

  “Even more disturbing is the fact that there’s been no communication at all from Ezogashima in two months,” Lord Matsudaira said, obviously familiar with the situation. There was a sly smile on his face that Sano didn’t like.

  “What have you done about this, ahh, matter?” the shogun asked Sano.

  Sano had to pause and think. Masahiro’s disappearance had made it hard for him to concentrate on anything else. “I sent envoys to find out what’s going on. They never returned.”

  “Worse and worse,” Lord Matsudaira muttered, but he sounded pleased for some strange, private reason.

  “What could be the cause of this?” the shogun asked.

  “Perhaps an Ezo uprising has prevented Lord Matsumae from leaving his domain or sending communiqués,” Sano said.

  From time to time the barbarians warred against the Japanese, invariably over trade disputes and Japanese intrusion into Ezo hunting and fishing territory. The last war had occurred some thirty years ago, when Ezo chieftains had banded together, attacked the Matsumae clan, and attempted to drive them out of Ezogashima. More than two hundred Japanese had been killed before the Matsumae finally subdued the barbarians. But another war with the Ezo wasn’t the most dire possibility.

  “Maybe the Manchurians have attacked,” Lord Matsudaira said.

  The regime had long feared an invasion, via Ezogashima, by the Manchurians from the Chinese mainland. The Matsumae clan was Japan’s buffer against them. Sano imagined war raging in Ezogashima, the Matsumae defeated, then enemy legions conquering Japan province by province before anyone in Edo knew. As everyone contemplated such a fate, fear opened the shogun’s mouth. He reac
hed for Yoritomo, who held his hand.

  “Something must be done,” the shogun said to Sano.

  Sano knew what was coming. Even if instinct hadn’t alerted him, Lord Matsudaira’s sly smile would have. He hurried to head it off. “I’ll send a battalion of troops to Ezogashima today.”

  “That’s not good enough.” The shogun pointed a dripping, withered finger at Sano. “I want you to go yourself.”

  A sense of injustice flared up in Sano. That the shogun still treated him like an errand boy, ordering him here and there on a whim, even now that he was second-in-command! Yet he knew he had no right to be angry even though a trip to Ezogashima was the last thing he needed. He was just as much at his lord’s disposal as the lowliest foot soldier was; he owed the shogun unstinting duty without expectation of reward. That was Bushido, the Way of the Warrior, the code of honor by which he lived. And he knew that sending him to Ezogashima wasn’t the shogun’s idea. Sano glared at Lord Matsudaira.

  Lord Matsudaira met his gaze with bland indifference before saying, “That’s a wonderful idea, Your Excellency. I’m sure Chamberlain Sano will straighten everything out for us.”

  While Sano was gone, Lord Matsudaira would steal his allies and build up his own power base. Then there would be no place left at court for Sano. If he went to Ezogashima, he might as well never come back.

  “I’m eager to be of service, but if I go, who will help you run the government, Your Excellency?” Sano said, appealing to the shogun’s self-interest.

  That ploy usually worked, but this time the shogun said, “My dear cousin has assured me that he will, ahh, fill your shoes in your absence.” He smiled gratefully at Lord Matsudaira, who smirked.

  But Sano had another, more urgent reason besides politics for wanting to get out of the trip. Desperation drove him to beg for special consideration even though he never had before. “Your Excellency, this is a bad time for me to leave Edo. My son is missing.”

  “Ahh, yes, I recall,” the shogun said, diverted. “Poor little boy. How terrible for you and Lady Reiko.”

  Sano hastened to press his advantage: “I have to be here to lead the search for him.”

  The shogun wavered but then turned to Lord Matsudaira. “What do you think?”

  “I think that perhaps his wish to find his son gives Chamberlain Sano all the more motive to go to Ezogashima,” Lord Matsudaira said in a portentous tone. “Before you argue anymore, Chamberlain Sano, I have something to show you.”

  He stood, reached under his sash, pulled out an object, and handed it to Sano. It was the hilt of a miniature sword, the wooden blade broken off. As Sano gazed at the flying-crane crest stamped on the brass guard, recognition and puzzlement stunned him. The hilt came from one toy sword of a pair he’d given Masahiro. The sword was the mate of the longer one that Reiko had found at the temple. Masahiro had worn both weapons that night.

  “Where did you get this?” Sano demanded.

  Shrugging, Lord Matsudaira smiled, his expression innocent. “I think you can guess.”

  Sano pictured Lord Matsudaira’s soldiers emerging from the woods at the temple, grabbing Masahiro. He saw Masahiro struggle to defend himself, his blade breaking. The soldiers smuggled Masahiro away from town, under the cover of darkness, careful to leave no trail. Revelation confirmed what Sano had suspected from the start despite a lack of evidence.

  Lord Matsudaira had kidnapped Masahiro.

  Such rage beset Sano that a shrieking noise blared in his ears and blood crimsoned his vision. Lord Matsudaira had taken his son, put him and Reiko through two months of hell.

  “You!” Sano lunged at Lord Matsudaira.

  The shogun exclaimed in fright. The guards dragged Sano away from Lord Matsudaira, who was unfazed. Sano fought them, shouting, “What did you do to him? Where is he?”

  “What’s going on?” the shogun cried.

  Sano drew a breath to say that Lord Matsudaira had kidnapped his son as yet another move against him in their ongoing strife, to tell the shogun, at long last, that his cousin was after his place at the head of the dictatorship.

  “Beware, Chamberlain Sano,” Lord Matsudaira cautioned, shaking his head, his voice ominous, his smile gone. “Speak, and you’ll hurt yourself more than me.”

  Prudence grappled with anger in Sano and won. He exhaled his intentions in a gust of air, because he knew Lord Matsudaira was right.

  The shogun was still unaware that his cousin had seized control of Japan and Sano was contesting Lord Matsudaira. No one had told him, and he wasn’t observant enough to have noticed. Sano and Lord Matsudaira enforced a nationwide conspiracy of silence because if he did find out, the precarious balance of power could tip in a direction that favored neither of them. Their rivalry could become a three-way civil war if the daimyo on their sides shifted their backing to the shogun, who had the hereditary right to rule. They would see the advantage of grouping together under one leader versus dividing their strength between two. The shogun could emerge the victor in spite of his personal shortcomings. And defeat would be worse for Sano than Lord Matsudaira.

  Even if Lord Matsudaira lost his domains, his army, and his political position in a war, his blood ties to the shogun could shield him from execution for treason. He could live to fight another day. But Sano, an outsider, would be put to death, as would his family and all his close associates.

  Now Sano’s tongue was silenced, his hands chained. He could only stare with bitter hatred at his foe who’d struck him the lowest blow in his most vulnerable spot.

  “I won’t forget this,” he said in a voice so harsh, so threatening, that Lord Matsudaira flinched.

  “Forget what?” the shogun piped up timidly.

  “Where is he?” Sano demanded again.

  Lord Matsudaira recovered his swagger, his smile. “In Ezogashima.”

  Although Sano was stunned by fresh shock, he realized he shouldn’t be. The news of where Lord Matsudaira had sent his son had a feeling of inevitability. All the strands of conflict and misfortune in his life had braided together. This whole discussion had been leading up to this moment.

  “In Ezogashima,” Lord Matsudaira repeated, “where trouble is waiting for you to investigate.” His eyes shone with evil triumph. “He should have arrived in the castle town of Fukuyama City a month ago. You mustn’t lose any time getting there.”

  If you want to rescue your son, said his unspoken words. The ransom for Masahiro was Sano’s mission to Ezogashima, his absence from Edo. Despite the circumstances, Sano felt the burden of his misery lighten. At last he knew where Masahiro was. Lord Matsudaira could be lying, but Sano’s samurai instincts told him otherwise. His political instincts said that although Lord Matsudaira could easily have had Masahiro killed, that wasn’t the case, because Masahiro was too valuable alive, as a hostage.

  Now Sano’s mind shifted focus away from the present scene, to his top priority of retrieving his son. The people around him seemed to shrink as if viewed from the far end of a spyglass. His new sense of mission dwarfed even Lord Matsudaira. Sano would deal with him later.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Your Excellency,” Sano said, bowing to the shogun, “I must prepare for a trip to Ezogashima.”

  “Ahh, are you going, then?” The shogun sounded relieved. All he’d gleaned from their conversation was that Sano had decided to obey his orders. Yoritomo gave Sano a strange, tormented, apologetic look, as if he thought himself to blame for Sano’s whole predicament. “Well, ahh, have a good voyage.”

  Sano was already out the door. He would rush headlong up north, as if he were a dog and Lord Matsudaira had thrown a stick for him to fetch.

  Chapter Two

  The waterfall cascaded from a high cliff top. The setting sun gilded the water spilling past the twisted pine trees that shaded the damp, eroded rocks. Cold water splashed onto Hirata, who sat immersed up to his waist in a pool in a forest so remote that few ever ventured there.

  His naked body was numb beneath th
e pool’s surface; he couldn’t feel his buttocks, legs, or feet. His upper half shivered in the freezing wind, and his teeth chattered despite his clenched jaws. His skin was as pale as ice, his lips and fingernails blue. His hair was plastered to his head; his muscles and veins stood out like iron cords beneath his taut flesh. His closed eyelids quivered as he tried to ignore his physical distress.

  This was a ritual necessary to reaching the next level in mastering the secrets of dim-mak, the ancient mystic martial art that he’d been studying for four years.

  During his last lesson, he’d fought his teacher, the old priest Ozuno, in a practice match that had begun at dawn. They’d wielded swords, staffs, knives, bare hands, and magic spells at each other. It was afternoon when Ozuno finally knocked Hirata to the ground and held a blade to his throat. They’d both collapsed on the ground, exhausted.

  “I hate to admit it, but you almost beat me,” Ozuno said grudgingly. But his pride in his pupil and his own teaching showed on his stern face. Beneath his unkempt gray hair, his shrewd eyes twinkled. “You’re ready for your ordeal by waterfall.”

  Hirata groaned. “What good will it do me to freeze my rear end for ten days?”

  “What good will this do, what good will that do?” Ozuno mimicked him. “For once in your stupid life, can’t you accept instructions without questioning them?” But he explained, “Your body is a prison that holds your mind captive. To be truly at one with the cosmos and the wisdom there, we must set our minds free. We do that by overwhelming the senses, by subjecting the body to a state of near death. Then the spirit can move to a higher level of enlightenment.”

  “What does true enlightenment feel like?” Hirata asked.

  “It can’t be described, only experienced,” Ozuno said. “You’ll know when you achieve it.”

  Now Hirata was locked in a struggle to slow his heartbeat, to confine the flow of blood to his vital organs, to shut down his bodily processes to the minimum functioning required for survival, as Ozuno had taught him. Finally the cold, the sound, and the deluge of the waterfall receded from his consciousness. His spirit poised on the narrow line between life and death. The borders between himself and the environment dissolved. His mind floated in pure, liberated tranquility.