“There has to be a way to keep her from him; she’s already been banished at night.”
Hiroshi’s eyebrows rose in surprise; apparently his false sister had not told him of the prince’s order. “You could ask Lady Mari to order the consorts to stay away. She’s his wife; the others have to obey her.”
“Perhaps.” Despite all the years they’d known each other, Iwata felt the prince’s wife was still a stranger. It had never mattered before. “I’ll order the men to stay with him at all times, three to a shift.”
“I was afraid you’d think I was mad or possessed by a spirit.” A vague smile flickered across Hiroshi’s face and was gone.
“Anyone else, I would have. But not you.” Iwata raised a hand, intending to pry Hiroshi’s grasp from his arm, but instead found himself squeezing the younger man’s stiff fingers. “I was going to order some of the men to watch the prince tonight, but I’ll have them go immediately instead. I’ll go back to the palace now and request an audience with Lady Mari.”
“Tell me who you want to go to the palace tonight.” Hiroshi released him, but his grip had been so tight that Iwata could still feel his fingertips pressing into his skin. “I’ll go to the barracks and issue the orders.”
“WHERE ARE they?” Iwata roared, flinging open the door with such force that it bounced against its frame and escaped the track. “Where are they?”
But the three soldiers, sent back from the palace in disgrace that morning, were standing at attention in the common room. Only their rapidly blinking eyes betrayed their fear as Iwata reached for the whip he’d tucked in his obi.
After delivering the punishment, Iwata stormed to Prince Narita’s bedchamber and fell to his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor. “I apologize for my failure, my lord. The useless beasts in question have been severely punished. I’ll personally sit with you tonight.”
“My wife has taken it into her head to nurse me herself.” Prince Narita rasped. “She’s put my other ladies out. I don’t mind; Hagino sat with me earlier and I thought her chatter would make my head burst. But if Mari’s feeling stubborn tomorrow, I’ll just order her to allow Kumomo in. No one is quite as soothing as my Kumomo. Did I ever tell you how I swept her out of a rice paddy?”
He had, more times than Iwata could count. “No, my lord.”
“I was out hunting near a tiny farming village, nothing more than a few shacks, when I passed a girl working in the rice paddy. She glanced up as I rode by…. The hat she wore hid half her face, but what I saw was so lovely… I turned my horse around and went back. I waded right out into the paddy and asked her to become my consort. ‘I am honored,’ she said, just like a noble girl would. And when my servants brought her to me, she was followed by a twelve-year-old boy who was nearly as beautiful as she was.” A faint smile touched his gaunt face. “Our sons are the handsomest of all my children.”
What had Hiroshi looked like at twelve? Iwata hadn’t met him until he’d left school and joined the regiment. “Captain Sagawara should be here soon with the other watchers.”
“Reliable Sho.” The prince’s eyes slipped shut.
Iwata went back to the inn. Hiroshi stood by the window, gazing out at the street. He looked up when Iwata entered. “They told me at the palace that our men fell asleep.”
“They’ve been punished,” Iwata said grimly. His wrist ached; he hadn’t used a whip himself in some time.
“I don’t doubt it.” Hiroshi smiled, but something haunted hung about his eyes. “At the palace I asked to see Kumomo. They said she was ill.”
Iwata stretched out on his sleeping mat. He stared at the featureless ceiling. “Maybe tonight I’ll learn something. I’m taking two men and sitting up with the prince myself.”
In the edge of his vision, Iwata saw Hiroshi cross the room. The afternoon sunlight fled as he closed and latched the shutters. He threw himself down on his own mat, which overlapped Iwata’s. He lay on his side, the wounded half of his face hidden in the crook of his arm. Iwata turned his head. Like this, Hiroshi looked even younger than his age—only twenty-four, six years his sister’s junior, and twenty years younger than Iwata. Iwata reached out and ran his fingertips down Hiroshi’s face to where his neck curved into his shoulder. Hiroshi sighed. “I’m coming with you tonight.”
Iwata rested his hand on Hiroshi’s arm.
“I know,” he said and closed his eyes.
IWATA ARRIVED at the palace at the Hour of the Crane. This time it was Lady Mari who met him at the door of the bedchamber. “He’s asleep, Lord General. I told the other ladies that I wished to be with him today. I assume you have a good reason for asking it of me?”
“Very good, my lady. I’ll disclose my motive as soon as I can.”
Lady Mari wished him good night and left, not glancing back.
The bedchamber was lit by a shaded lantern in each corner. Despite the summer heat, a brazier burned against one wall. Prince Narita’s still form was covered in dancing splotches of light and shadow. Iwata bent and pressed his fingers to the blankets heaped on the prince’s body. They rose and fell with his shallow gasps. Iwata took up a post by the wall to wait for the others.
The prince’s breathing deepened. Iwata watched him sleep. He could imagine what Kumomo had seen that day in the rice paddy; he’d seen the same thing thirty years ago, when Prince Narita had ridden into his village, recruiting soldiers for the invasion of Yen. A solidly built young man no older than Iwata, his mouth fierce and his eyes blazing. “Come with me,” he’d said, and Iwata had.
Voices from the corridor stole his attention from the sleeping prince. Two vague figures had stopped outside the door. The rice-paper panels did nothing to mute their conversation. Servants, Iwata guessed, made bold by their master’s illness.
“…he’s staying the night in the prince’s bedchamber, since the soldiers proved unreliable.”
“I’ve heard he’d rather stay the night on the prince’s sleeping mat. Too bad for the Lord General, Prince Narita definitely prefers women.”
“Have you seen Lady Kumomo’s brother? I’d rather have him than an old man. Do you think he knows—”
Iwata was on his feet in an instant. He stormed toward the door, ready to drag the gossips into the courtyard. His hand touched the door when he heard footsteps, a new voice.
“What are you doing, chattering like sparrows outside the prince’s bedchamber? If you’ve disturbed him, I’ll beat you myself.” Hiroshi’s tone sliced like a blade, cutting the gossips short. Iwata heard the servants’ stumbling apologies. He returned to his place by the wall. The door opened, revealing Hiroshi and two of Iwata’s most trusted soldiers, grizzled men who’d been with the prince’s regiment almost as long as he had.
“Lord General.” Hiroshi bowed. If he’d heard what the servants said, he gave no sign. “What shall we do?”
Iwata set the old soldiers by the two shuttered windows. “I’ll guard one end of the door, Captain. You take the other.”
“Yes, my lord.”
No one spoke. Hiroshi’s gaze roamed the room like a hawk’s, alert and precise. The old soldiers were still as stone. Iwata’s nerves tingled, but he didn’t move from his position. Any distraction might cause the prince to be harmed.
Hours crawled by in silence. The wood in the brazier burned to ash, and Hiroshi rose to replace it, but otherwise all was still.
Iwata lost track of time, but he thought it was the Hour of the Lotus—when night crossed the threshold into day—when the door cracked open. He started to his feet in an instant, his hand on his katana. Hiroshi and the others were only a heartbeat behind.
They found themselves staring at a cat.
It was an average-sized cat, lean and elegant, clad in brindled gray fur. It blinked up at them, completely unconcerned. The tension bled out of Iwata’s muscles. He sheathed his sword. Hiroshi reached for the cat, but it flashed past his grasping hands and into the room. It bounded to the window. The soldier guarding it smiled.
“Whose cat are you?”
“What does it matter? Put it out.” Iwata returned to his place. There were always animals about the palace: horses and chickens in the stables, pet dogs and cats and birds and crickets that belonged to the servants or the consorts or the children. Like Iwata, the prince had never had much affection for animals, except his warhorses.
“You heard him, go on.” The soldier nudged the cat with his foot. But the cat remained where it was, with only its tail twitching to show its irritation. “Maybe it wants to keep watch with us.”
“Animals can’t think like humans,” Iwata growled.
“General Iwata said to put it out.” Hiroshi strode over to the cat. It flung itself at his legs, purring ferociously. He bent to pick it up, but his fingers suddenly went slack and he began stroking the brindled head instead. “It is a pretty cat. Couldn’t it stay?”
Iwata raised his head so quickly his neck cracked. Hiroshi had never questioned his orders, not before the men and not when they were alone. He harnessed his fury, driving it into his voice. “No. Put it out. Now, Captain.”
Hiroshi petted the cat a moment longer, then sighed. “All right, little one. Come along.” He leaned down and placed his hands on either side of the cat’s body.
The cat shot out from between his hands, quick as a hummingbird. It leaped at Prince Narita. Iwata drew his katana and lunged forward, swinging at the cat. It twisted in midair, braced its back paws for an instant on the edge of his blade, and ricocheted off in another direction. Hiroshi and the soldiers gaped stupidly at it. Iwata roared at them, “Catch the cat, idiots!”
They moved slowly, as if they were underwater. Hiroshi fumbled for his sword. A gray streak flew past the ankles of one of the soldiers. He reached for it, but lost his balance and pitched forward, crashing to the floor. He didn’t get up. Hiroshi stepped forward, too slowly; Hiroshi never moved that slowly, Iwata thought. He knelt and pressed his fingers to the man’s neck.
“Asleep,” he said in astonishment. Behind him, the other soldier sank to the floor. His katana, half-out of its sheath, shone in the firelight.
A trickle of sweat ran down Iwata’s neck into his collar. The air was thick and warm, he realized, too hot even for a summer evening. How long had it been that way? It seeped into his blood, slowing his heartbeat, weighing down his eyelids. His sword felt suddenly heavy…. Iwata tightened his grip on it. Darkness filled his head, threatening to drown him.
“Captain!” he barked, but Hiroshi’s hand lay limp upon the hilt of his katana, which rested on the ground—an unforgivable offense for a soldier. He was still kneeling, but his chin was tucked against his chest, his eyes closed. His lips parted slightly, as they did when he was asleep. “Hiro!”
No use. Some kind of spell had settled on them, heavy and suffocating as the prince’s mound of blankets. Iwata’s mind crawled sluggishly; his legs trembled. His sword dragged at his arm….
His sword. Iwata forced his gaze to his sword. Military swords were tested by slicing through the corpses of executed criminals, flesh and bone. No cat could touch a paw to the edge of one and leap away unscathed. “What are you?”
The cat stepped out of a patch of shadow in the corner. It padded past Hiroshi, rubbing against his bent knees, and settled on the opposite side of the mat from Iwata. They faced each other over the prince’s prone body. Iwata couldn’t leave Prince Narita alone with the creature, but sleep grasped at him, plucked at his eyelids, filled his limbs.
Iwata laid his katana on the floor and sank to his knees. The cat gazed smugly at him. He groped in his sash a moment, finally drawing out the dagger he always carried there. As quickly as he could manage, Iwata raised the dagger, then plunged it down into his thigh.
The pain seared his body and mind. His eyes jerked open. Blood welled up around the dagger’s hilt, seeping across the fabric of his kimono. With his fading logic, Iwata had chosen a spot that wouldn’t be life-threatening, so he made no move to staunch the bleeding. Wide-awake now, he surveyed the room.
The cat stared at him, firelight sparking the golden flecks in its eyes. It sat impassively, only blinking when he thrust the blade into his leg. Its whiskers twitched a bit at the scent of blood, but it didn’t move. Around them, between them, men slept. Iwata stared at the cat, hating it.
Sleep crept up on him, pricking at his eyes. Glaring at the cat, Iwata twisted the dagger. A fresh wave of pain broke over him. Hot blood wet his fingers. Sleep retreated. The cat yawned.
Before its mouth had closed, it raised one paw and leisurely batted at Prince Narita’s head. Iwata snatched up his katana and slashed at it. The cat evaded, impossibly quickly; any normal cat would have lost a paw. Iwata laid his sword across his knees, hand on the hilt. His nerves tingled. What was this creature? He and the cat resumed staring at each other in tense silence.
Twice more the cat attempted to touch the prince, casually, as if the ferocity with which Iwata drove it off was amusing. Again and again sleep tried to take him. Each time he felt his eyes droop, Iwata twisted the dagger a centimeter in his thigh. Between twists the pain faded to a constant ache, but every fresh rush of blood brought him awake. The cat watched him smugly. For a moment Iwata thought it shimmered, like a landscape in a haze of heat.
Iwata had no idea how long their standoff lasted. Everything had ceased to exist but the prince, the cat, the burning in his leg, and the fire-flung shadows along the walls.
And then, as abruptly as it had arrived, the cat left. It rose and sauntered toward the door, not looking back. Iwata watched it go. He’d stared straight ahead for so long that his neck twinged stiffly as he turned his head. The cat reached the door and was gone. The door remained closed; Iwata realized he had never seen it open.
He allowed himself to blink. His eyes watered. He waited, but the cat didn’t return. Iwata counted to five hundred in his head. Still the cat didn’t return. The heat in the room began to lift, and Iwata found breathing easier. Prince Narita and Hiroshi and the men slept on, undisturbed.
Iwata grasped the hilt of the dagger with blood-slick fingers. Gritting his teeth, he yanked the blade free. Blood oozed from his exhausted veins. His fingers trembled as he untied his sash and knotted it around his thigh. He sheathed his katana and wiped the dagger on his kimono. He pressed his palms to the floor and tried to rise. His knees wavered but held. His right leg was a solid pillar of pain. Watery gray light leaked around the edges of the shutters. It was dawn. He stood unmoving, waiting for the numbness that follows pain before he attempted to walk.
The old soldiers woke first, at nearly the same moment. They blinked into awareness, their slack jaws working. For a moment they gazed about in bewilderment, taking in Iwata, the dark red puddle staining the matting, their captain dozing on the floor. They understood enough to turn their faces pale. Horror dawned in their eyes. As one they dropped to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the floor.
“My Lord General,” said the older of the two. His voice was toneless. “We cannot live with our shame. Please allow us to commit suicide.”
It wouldn’t be the first time Iwata had done so. But now he shook his head. “No. You will stay here with the prince until you are relieved.”
The soldier raised his head. “My lord—”
“I said no, Yawara.”
Behind the kneeling soldiers, Hiroshi stirred. Sleeping late as usual, Iwata thought. Hiroshi sat up, rubbing his eyes like a child.
“Captain Sagawara!” Iwata snapped. Hiroshi blinked at him. Suddenly the same realization touched his face. He opened his mouth, but Iwata cut him off. “The prince is unharmed. Come with me.”
“Yes, Lord General.” Hiroshi sheathed his katana. Iwata limped toward the door, every step a stab of pain he hid behind a scowl. His blood-sodden kimono clung to his skin. Hiroshi followed, his head bowed. The soldiers rearranged themselves at either side of Prince Narita’s prone body, their hands on their weapons.
In the corridor Hiroshi trailed after him.
“How can I ever look the prince in the eyes again? Or Momo?”
Iwata paused. The anger in Hiroshi’s voice grated. He turned slowly, reluctant to look his lover in the face. Hiroshi stared at his sandals, biting his lower lip so hard Iwata thought he must taste blood. “You sleeping, the others sleeping… wasn’t your fault. Some kind of magic was at work. There was a spell of some kind laid over us. You didn’t fail Prince Narita.”
“Did I fail you?”
Iwata opened his mouth to reply, but an abrupt wave of dizziness took the words from his tongue. He reached out to steady himself against the wall. Immediately Hiroshi was at his side. “Let me help, Sho.”
Iwata allowed Hiroshi to slide one shoulder under his arm, propping up his bloody right side. They shuffled awkwardly down the corridor, their cheeks nearly touching. Hiroshi smelled of sweat and steel. “What do you remember, Hiro?”
Hiroshi’s forehead wrinkled. “Not much. I remember… sitting by the door, and then an animal came in. A cat?”
“Yes. A cat.”
“And then I fell asleep.” Hiroshi’s head sank, his eyes growing dark.
Iwata told him the rest: the cat, the heaviness of the air, the soldiers collapsing into sleep, stabbing his own thigh to stay awake. Hiroshi listened in silence. They came to the end of the corridor, and Iwata straightened up; the servants couldn’t see Prince Narita’s general hobbling on someone’s arm. Hiroshi seemed to understand without being told, as he so often did. He stepped away, pausing with one hand on Iwata’s shoulder, just long enough to be sure Iwata could stand alone. As they turned the corner, a young woman carrying a bundle of firewood paused to gape at Iwata’s bloody clothes. Hiroshi gave her a stern look and she hurried on.
“I’ve never heard of cats using magic,” Hiroshi said thoughtfully. “Other animals, but never cats. We have to find someone who knows about these things.”
“If anyone from the palace approaches a priest, every person in town will know within a week. Everyone will know something is wrong here.”
Late Summer, Early Spring Page 2
