Sano Ichiro 4 The Concubine's Tattoo (1998)

by Laura Joh Rowland

  "What-what are you doing?" he demanded. The rational part of his mind guessed that she was trying to distract him through seduction. For the sake of the investigation, he must not let it happen, no matter how much he wanted her. "Your letter said that you had important information about Lady Harume's murder. And I need answers to the questions you avoided at the puppet theater." Wishing he hadn't lost his plan, he tried to recall its instructions. "Where were you when Harume was almost killed by a flying dagger? How did you really feel about her?"

  "Shhhh..." Tenderly Ichiteru's finger traced his lips.

  "Stop that," Hirata said. He tried to stand, but a peculiar sensation came over him. His limbs were as heavy as bags of sand; his head felt disconnected from the rest of his body. His senses grew extraordinarily acute. Every pore seemed to open, every nerve to vibrate. The murky colors of the room glowed; the lapping of the canal sounded as loud as ocean waves; Lady Ichiteru's perfume filled his lungs like the fragrance from a million flowers. Hirata heard the rapid drumming of his heart, the rush of his blood. His manhood swelled into an erection bigger than any he'd ever known.

  Ichiteru was helping him to his feet, half carrying him to the futon. "No," Hirata protested weakly. Through a dreamy haze that filmed his mind, he recalled the police clerk mentioning a drug that induced trances and heightened sexual pleasure. Hirata also recalled that Ichiteru hadn't imbibed any of the sake. She must have put the drug there.

  Had she bought it from Choyei, along with the poison that had killed Lady Harume?

  "Let me go. Please!" Hirata feared for his own life, but Lady Ichiteru's nearness sent shivers of delight through him; her touch burned all vestiges of reason from his mind. Surrendering, he collapsed on the futon. The coffered ceiling was decorated with painted waves that undulated before Hirata's dazed vision. Ichiteru hovered over him as if airborne, the folds of her mauve kimono swirling. Then she raised her arms and the garment fell away, leaving her naked. Hirata gasped. Ichiteru's breasts were full and lush, the nipples large as coins. Her hips curved voluptuously from a tiny waist; a tuft of silky black pubic hair nestled in her crotch. Sleek, creamy skin enhanced the elegant bone structure of her neck, shoulders, and long, graceful limbs. Beneath her perfume, Hirata smelled her natural odor: pungent and salty as the sea. A tide of desire rose in him, but mortal fear rode its crest.

  "No. Please. We can't do this. If the shogun finds out, he'll have us both killed!"

  Lady Ichiteru only smiled, untied his sash, and removed his garments. She unwound the bands of his loincloth, and his erection sprang free. As he exclaimed in horrified excitement, she said, "It is for the sake of His Excellency that I summoned you here. He is in great danger." Ichiteru's voice surrounded Hirata like a cloud of disembodied sound; her scent engulfed him. "The murder of Lady Harume was part of a plot against our lord."

  "What plot? I-I don't understand." The drug was rapidly diminishing Hirata's mental capacity; his brain floated in a sea of intoxication. Lady Ichiteru leaned close. Gently her breasts brushed his chest. The exquisite sensation drew a moan from Hirata. He heard the waters of the canal crashing against its banks. He must escape. He must have Ichiteru. But he could manage neither; the drug immobilized his limbs.

  Then Ichiteru cupped her breasts in both hands and pressed his manhood into the warm, smooth cleft between them. Up and down she moved, smiling. The friction was unbearably arousing. Hirata cried out as his pleasure mounted too fast, too high.

  "Stop. Don't!" Enough of his self-consciousness remained that he didn't want to spurt all over Lady Ichiteru, but his protest went unheeded. She continued her movements. Hirata felt the rapid approach of inevitable release. Deftly Ichiteru applied pressure to several points at the base of his erection. Hirata's climax erupted in spasms of ecstasy. Even as he moaned and gasped, he made a feeble attempt to shield Ichiteru, but his hand refused to move. Ichiteru and the place where their bodies touched seemed impossibly far away, and he strained to focus his vision there. Then surprise silenced him.

  No seed had spilled from his manhood, which was still rock hard. And the climax hadn't diminished his arousal in the least.

  "What did you do to me? What kind of magic is this?" he demanded.

  Looming over him, Ichiteru put a finger to his lips. "Shhh..." Her musical laughter mocked his panic. As the drug's effects intensified, Hirata grew dizzier. The bed beneath him rocked, and the water sounds grew louder. Waves of heat licked him. He and Ichiteru were spinning, the patterns of the ceiling a blur of color above them. Only her beautiful face remained in clear focus. "Don't be afraid... it won't hurt you. Just enjoy yourself..." Each word resonated through Hirata's head. "And don't you want to know who killed Lady Harume?"

  "No. I mean, yes!" Hirata fought the resurgence of desire rising in him.

  "It was someone who was jealous of Harume... A man who feared that the birth of the shogun's heir would thwart his ambitions..." Lady Ichiteru held a red lacquer cylinder as thick as her arm. "He seeks to rule Japan, and cannot afford to lose his one avenue to power."

  The spinning accelerated; Hirata's mind reeled. Frantically he tried to remember the facts of the case, and the male suspects. "Who are you talking about? Lieutenant Kushida? Lord Miyagi? Lady Harume's secret lover?"

  "None of them... of them... of them..." Lady Ichiteru's soft voice echoed over the sounds of water, the pulse of Hirata's own blood. She slipped the hollow cylinder over his organ. The oiled silk lining sheathed him in pure pleasure. As Ichiteru moved the cylinder, ridges under the lining alternately gripped and released him. Panting, Hirata began the ascent toward another orgasm.

  "Priest Ryuko has spies everywhere... knew about Lord Miyagi's letter... He comes and goes freely within the Large Interior... One day I heard him tell Lady Keisho-in that Harume was with child and must die... Together they decided that Ryuko would buy poison and put it in the ink."

  Even while the new evidence against Keisho-in filled Hirata with horror, the spasms of climax convulsed him. Again Ichiteru prevented the full release he craved. She removed the cylinder and tossed it away.

  "Please. Please!" Sobbing with need, Hirata strained to reach her, but he couldn't move a muscle. Now Lady Ichiteru knelt above him, thighs straddling his torso. The magnificence of her body, the serene loveliness of her face, and her feral, bittersweet smell maddened him.

  "I beg you to warn His Excellency that the Tokugawa succession is in grave danger," Ichiteru said. "There will never be a direct heir as long as Ryuko and Keisho-in remain at Edo Castle. They will murder any other woman who conceives the shogun's child... They fancy themselves emperor and empress of Japan... They will manipulate the shogun... and squander his money on their own whims... The bakufu will weaken and insurrection arise... You must expose these murderers and save the Tokugawa clan and the entire country from ruin."

  Despite his agitation, Hirata could see the danger of doing so. "I can't. At least not without corroboration. If my master and I should falsely accuse the shogun's mother, that would be treason!"

  "You must promise to take the chance." Ichiteru's hand, coated with gardenia-scented oil, caressed his organ until his moans turned to hoarse cries and he felt ready to burst-then she stopped. "Otherwise... I will leave now... and you shall never see me again."

  Horror flooded Hirata at the thought of losing Lady Ichiteru, of never satisfying the urgent need that consumed him. From passion grew love, like a malignant flower blooming in his spirit. Ichiteru was wonderful; she would never speak anything but the truth. "All right," Hirata cried. "I'll do it. Just please, please-"

  Lady Ichiteru's approving smile filled him with guilty delight. "You have made the right decision. Now you shall have your reward."

  She lowered herself onto his erection. Hirata almost swooned as he slid into her moist, hot womanhood. Faster and faster the room spun; sound, sight, and smell merged into a single, overpowering sensation. Up and down moved Ichiteru, with accelerating speed. Her inner muscles held him in a
fierce suction. Hirata's excitement climbed toward a peak higher than ever before. His heart thundered; his straining lungs couldn't get enough air; sweat bathed him. He would die of pleasure. Panic seized Hirata.

  "No. Stop. I can't take any more!"

  Then he exploded in a cataclysm of rapture. He felt the seed pumping from his body, heard his own shouts. Above him Ichiteru reigned in triumph. As he succumbed to her power, Hirata knew that the path he'd chosen was fraught with peril. Yet both duty and desire compelled him to travel it. He couldn't ignore a possible threat against the shogun, and he must have Lady Ichiteru. Hirata had no choice but to report her statement to Sano, who would proceed with the investigation from there.

  Even at the risk of their own lives.

  29

  The vibrant, haunting tones of koto music told Reiko that she had at last found the witness she'd been seeking for two days. From the lofty hilltop behind Zojo Temple, the ancient melody drifted down through forests, over worship halls, pavilions, and pagoda, each note sharply defined in the clear air.

  "Let me out here," Reiko commanded her palanquin bearers.

  Alighting at the foot of the hill, she hurried up a flight of stone steps that ascended through fragrant pines. Birds warbled an accompaniment to the music, which grew louder as she climbed higher. However, the tranquil beauty of the place made little impression upon Reiko. Everything-not just her personal ambitions or her marriage to Sano, but their very lives-might depend on what the witness knew about Lady Harume's murder. Anticipation quickened her steps; her billowing cloak flapped behind her like umber wings. Gasping for breath, heart pounding, Reiko arrived at the summit.

  A vast panorama spread around her. Below, on the other side of the hill, stone bridges arched across Lotus Pond to the islet upon which stood a shrine to the goddess Sarasvati. The temple's tile roofs gleamed in the sunlight; fiery foliage blanketed the surrounding landscape. In the north, Edo lay beneath a haze of charcoal smoke, embraced by the Sumida River's shining curve. Reiko walked toward the many-armed statue of Kannon, goddess of mercy, and the pavilion beside it. An audience of peasants, samurai, and priests had gathered to hear the musician who knelt before the koto, under the pavilion's thatched roof.

  He'd always seemed ancient to Reiko, and she guessed he must be over seventy now. His head was as bald and speckled as an egg. Age had stooped his shoulders and pulled down the lines of his narrow face; bent over the long, horizontal instrument, he looked like an elderly crane. But his knotty hands played the koto with undiminished strength. He twisted the tuning pegs, deftly moved the stops, and struck the thirteen strings with an ivory plectrum. Eyes shut in concentration, he coaxed forth music that seemed to hold the entire world immobile with awe. The song's ethereal beauty brought involuntary tears to Reiko's eyes. Abandoning haste, she waited outside the pavilion for the performance to end.

  The audience listened reverently as the music gained volume and complexity, layering improvisation upon theme. The final chord hung in the air for an endless moment. Head bowed, eyes still closed, the musician sat as if entranced. The audience faded away. Reiko approached.

  "Sensei Fukuzawa? Might I please have a word with you?" She bowed, adding, "You may not remember me. It's been eight years since we last met."

  The musician opened his eyes. Age hadn't dimmed their keen, bright clarity. His face lit with immediate recognition. "Of course I remember you, Miss Reiko-or, I should say, Honorable Lady Sano." His voice was weak and quavery; his soul spoke chiefly through the koto. "My congratulations on your marriage." Extending his hand in a gesture of welcome, he said, "Please join me."

  "Thank you." Reiko climbed the steps into the pavilion and knelt opposite him. Warm sunlight streamed through the lattice walls; a folding screen provided shelter from the wind. "I've been looking all over for you-at your house in Ginza, and the theaters. Finally one of your colleagues told me you'd begun a pilgrimage to temples and shrines across the country. I'm so glad I caught you before you left Edo."

  "Ah, yes. I want to visit the great holy places before I die. But what caused your sudden urge to see your old music teacher?" The old man's eyes twinkled. "Not, I presume, the desire for more lessons."

  Reiko smiled ruefully. During the six years in which Sensei Fukuzawa had taught her to play the koto, she'd been a reluctant pupil. When her lessons ended, she put away her instrument with great relief and never touched it again. Now she was old enough to regret the waste of her sensei's effort and feel ashamed of the callous way she had rejected the art to which he'd devoted his life. Uncomfortably she remembered her father pointing out her na‹vet‚ and overconfidence, and Sano her headstrong contrariness. These, too, were faults she must admit and conquer.

  "I want to apologize for my poor attitude," Reiko said, though humility didn't come easily to her. "And I've missed you," she added, realizing for the first time how much she had. Unlike her relatives, Sensei Fukuzawa had neither scolded nor punished her for misbehaving. Unlike other teachers, who raged, threatened, and even hit students when they made mistakes, he'd always inspired through patient kindness rather than fear. Thus he had coaxed Reiko's meager talent to its full potential, while providing a haven from the criticism she got from everyone else. Didn't the fact that she could now appreciate the value of such a rare person mean her character was improving?

  "No apology is necessary; it is enough to see that your character has matured," the old man said, echoing her thoughts. "But I suspect that there is a serious reason for the honor of your attention?" He smiled gently.

  "Yes," Reiko admitted, recalling his ability to see through people, as if studying music had given him special insight into the human spirit. "I'm investigating the murder of Lady Harume. I heard that you spent the past month in the castle, giving lessons to the women of the Large Interior." His age and reputation made him one of the few men allowed there. "I want to know whether you saw or heard anything that might help me figure out who killed her."

  "Ah." Sensei Fukuzawa ran his gnarled fingers over the koto strings, contemplating Reiko. From the instrument came a wandering, abstract melody in a minor key. Though neither his expression nor his tone indicated anything except benign interest, Reiko read disapproval in the music. She hurried to justify herself to the old teacher because she craved his good opinion. After explaining why she wanted to investigate the murder, she delivered the news that had increased her determination to solve the case.

  "My cousin Eri told me this morning about a rumor that's circulating around the castle. Apparently the shogun's mother had an affair with Harume that ended badly. Everyone says she wrote a letter to Harume, threatening to kill her, and therefore, Lady Keisho-in is the murderer.

  I don't know if there really is such a letter, or if it means she's guilty. But my husband's other prime suspect-Lieutenant Kushida-has disappeared. He's under a lot of pressure to solve the case. If he hears the rumor and finds the letter, he may decide to charge Lady Keisho-in with poisoning Harume. But what if he's wrong, and she's innocent?

  "He'll be executed for treason. And I, as his wife, will die with him." Clenching her hands in her lap, Reiko tried to subdue her fear. "I can't depend on my husband to find the real killer, or to protect me. Haven't I the right to save my own life?"

  The koto music took a brighter turn, and Sensei Fukuzawa nodded. "Knowing that a former pupil is in danger, I would gladly help. Let me see..." As he played, he contemplated a pleasure boat drifting on Lotus Pond. Then he sighed and shook his head.

  "It is no use. When one is my age, recent events blur in one's memory, while those of thirty years ago are as clear as water. I could re-create every note of my first performance, but as for the month I spent at Edo Castle-" He shrugged in sad resignation. "The ladies and I had many conversations during their lessons. Quarrels often arose between them, and women do gossip constantly; however, I can't think of anything they said or did that seemed out of the ordinary. Nor do I recall meeting Lady Harume. Certainly I had no pr
emonition of her death."

  He added, "I am sorry. It seems you've gone to much trouble for nothing. Please forgive me."

  "That's all right, it's not your fault," Reiko said, hiding her disappointment and knowing that she herself was to blame for it. In her youthful arrogance, she'd formed an exaggerated notion of her detective abilities and the value of her contacts. Now reality stripped her of delusion.

  She'd used her last lead, to no avail. She would neither solve the murder case nor save her life. True, she'd discovered Lady Ichiteru's quarrel with Harume, and that Lieutenant Kushida had been in Harume's room shortly before the murder. Yet this evidence hadn't led to a conviction. Reiko's unhappiness turned to anger at herself and her sex. She was nothing but a worthless female who might as well go home and sew until the soldiers came to take her to the execution ground!

  And beneath the anger seethed a disturbing mixture of contrary emotions. Though Reiko regretted that she couldn't prove her superiority to Sano by beating him at his own game, she realized that she'd also wanted to please him by finding Lady Harume's killer. She wanted him to like and respect her. Even as defeat shamed her, she rued the lost hope of love.