The Shogun's Daughter si-17

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “I did. What a nasty woman! She deliberately coughed in my face, and she taunted me about giving me smallpox!” Reiko scrubbed her face with a napkin. “She hated Tsuruhime. And she’s had smallpox. She could have gone to the tent camps, found someone with smallpox, then brought back their soiled bedsheet and put it in with Tsuruhime’s things without any harm to herself. If I didn’t want to believe Yanagisawa is guilty, she would be my favorite suspect.” Reiko thought a moment. “Tsuruhime is starting to sound not very nice. If everybody hated her, it will be hard to figure out who killed her. But someone inside her house would have had an easier time killing her than someone from outside.”

  “Not everybody hated her.” Masahiro told Sano, “I got inside Lord Tsunanori’s estate today.” He described the young samurai whom the others had teased. “It sounded as if he liked her too much.”

  “If there was an affair between him and Tsuruhime, that adds new complications,” Sano said, interested. “What else did you find out?”

  “Nothing.” Masahiro’s eyes clouded, as if with a troubling memory. “When he ran out of the estate, I lost him. I can go back tomorrow and talk to him.”

  “All right.” Sano would give Masahiro a chance to pursue the lead he’d found.

  “The nurse did tell me something that implicates Yanagisawa,” Reiko said. “Yoshisato came to call on Tsuruhime shortly before she took ill.”

  Sano felt a stir of excitement followed by trepidation.

  “That means Yoshisato had a chance to put the infected sheet in her room,” Masahiro said. “Yanagisawa could have told him to. Aren’t you glad?”

  “Yes, because this could be construed as evidence against Yanagisawa. No, because it’s also evidence against the shogun’s heir. We have to be careful with it.” Sano turned to Reiko. “Do you believe the nurse’s story?”

  “She said Tsuruhime’s servants and ladies-in-waiting can confirm it.”

  Although it connected Yanagisawa with Tsuruhime’s death, Sano had mixed feelings. Was Yoshisato a willing participant in Yanagisawa’s plan to seize power? Or had Yanagisawa forced him to pose as the shogun’s long-lost son? Sano thought of Yanagisawa’s elder son, Yoritomo, and recalled what Hirata had told him today. Even if the secret society were to blame for Yoritomo’s death, Sano still felt responsible for creating the circumstances for it to occur. Sano hated to destroy another young life. But he’d undertaken this investigation with full knowledge of where it might lead. If he brought down Yanagisawa, then Yoshisato would probably go down, too. And Yoshisato might be far from an innocent pawn. He might be guilty of murdering Tsuruhime as well as becoming her father’s heir by fraud.

  “Well. Since we haven’t been able to incriminate Yanagisawa, we’ll go after Yoshisato.” That said, Sano couldn’t entirely quell his misgivings.

  A maid came to the door. “Excuse me, but Lady Nobuko is here to see you.”

  Reiko and Masahiro started to rise, but Sano said, “I’ll see her by myself.” He had a bone to pick with Lady Nobuko.

  Lady Nobuko and her lady-in-waiting were in the reception room. Her face had relaxed a little, as if the prospect of revenge against her enemy had eased her headache. Korika smiled eagerly. Lady Nobuko barely greeted Sano before she demanded, “What did you discover?”

  Short-tempered from too many acrimonious confrontations, Sano said, “I discovered that you lied to me this morning.”

  Lady Nobuko blinked at his tactless manner. “What are you talking about?”

  “I asked you who else besides Yanagisawa might have wanted to kill Tsuruhime. You said no one. Then I went to see Lord Tsunanori. He made it patently clear that he hated her and wanted to be rid of her. He said you knew.”

  “Yes, I knew.” Lady Nobuko sounded annoyed, as if Sano was frivolously wasting her time. “So what?”

  “So why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

  “Lord Tsunanori didn’t kill Tsuruhime.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He hasn’t the intelligence or the imagination to think of infecting her with smallpox.”

  “Oh, well, I’m glad to hear such definitive proof that he’s innocent,” Sano retorted. “Did you know that Tsuruhime’s nurse had had smallpox?”

  “Yes. Why does it matter?”

  Sano didn’t bother answering; he could tell that Lady Nobuko knew exactly why it mattered. “Why didn’t you tell me about the nurse or about Lord Tsunanori?”

  Korika cringed from Sano’s anger. Lady Nobuko sighed in exasperation. “Because if I had told you that they could have murdered Tsuruhime, you might not have believed it was Yanagisawa. You might not have agreed to investigate her death.”

  “If you’d told me she was murdered, it would have been my duty to investigate regardless of who you think killed her.”

  “Your duty? Yes. Your top priority?” She gave a dry chuckle. “Not unless there was something special in it for you, such as a chance to destroy Yanagisawa.”

  She was right, but that didn’t make Sano feel any friendlier toward her. “Because you lied to me, I spent today finding out things you already knew.”

  The muscles on the right side of Lady Nobuko’s face contracted tighter. She regarded Sano with disappointment. “Didn’t you find any evidence that Yanagisawa is guilty?”

  She was so focused on her single objective that she didn’t care about anything or anyone else, Sano thought. “Actually, I did.”

  “What kind of evidence?” She leaned toward him, avid as a raptor.

  “Before I tell you, I want two things from you,” Sano said. “First, answer this question, and answer honestly: Is there anything else you’re not telling me?”

  “No,” she said, irate.

  “Second, promise that from now on you’ll never withhold information from me again.”

  Lady Nobuko looked as offended and disgusted as if he’d asked her to give him her underwear. “All right. Now stop wasting my time. What have you learned?”

  It was dangerous information to give a person he still didn’t trust, but Sano owed it to Lady Nobuko. Her lady-in-waiting’s story about the bedsheet had presented his best opportunity for bringing Yanagisawa down. “There’s a witness at Lord Tsunanori’s estate who claims that Yoshisato visited Tsuruhime there shortly before she got smallpox.”

  Lady Nobuko said triumphantly, “I told you so!” Korika smiled with relief because her mistress’s humor had been restored. “Yanagisawa murdered Tsuruhime, and he sent Yoshisato to do the dirty work.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to substantiate the story,” Sano said. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

  “Don’t be so quick to discount it,” Lady Nobuko said. “It’s our first big step toward destroying Yanagisawa and preventing Yoshisato from becoming the next shogun.” She and Korika rose to leave. “You’ll see that I’m right.”

  * * *

  LATER THAT NIGHT Reiko sat in her bedchamber, brushing her hair. Sano came into the room, fresh from his bath. He removed his robe and hung it on the clothes stand. The light from the lantern made his body gleam. Reiko admired his firm muscles. His skin was marked with scars from battles he’d fought, like badges of honor. She smiled. After more than fourteen years of marriage, while six months pregnant, she desired her husband as much as when she’d been a new bride. She was glad their quarters had been rebuilt and they didn’t have to sleep with the children. Now they could make love in private.

  In bed together, she and Sano embraced. Moonlight filtered in through the open window. A light quilt shielded them from the cool spring breeze. But Reiko sensed absent-mindedness in Sano’s caresses. His thoughts were far away.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  He rolled away from her and lay on his back. Studying him in the moonlight, Reiko saw the tense, unhappy set of his profile. “Are you still upset because of Lady Nobuko?” He’d told her about the woman’s lie.

  “It’s not that.” Sano said reluctantly, “I ran into Hirata tod
ay.”

  “Oh! He’s back?” Glad and excited, Reiko said, “I should go tell Midori.”

  “No.” Sano caught her hand.

  “Why not?” Reiko said, puzzled now. “Why didn’t Hirata come home with you? Has something bad happened to him?”

  “Something has happened. ‘Bad’ doesn’t begin to describe it.” Sano reluctantly told Hirata’s story. Reiko listened in disbelief. When he’d finished, they gazed at the ceiling while she absorbed what she’d heard.

  “Magic rituals and a ghost! A plot to destroy the Tokugawa regime! I never imagined Hirata becoming involved in anything of the sort.” Reiko thought about Hirata and recalled things Midori had said. “But I understand how he could have fallen in with the secret society. He’s not a good judge of people, and he doesn’t think enough before he acts.”

  Sano chuckled wryly. “You know him better than I did.” He thumped his fist on the bed. “The fool! Dishonoring himself! Putting me in this position!”

  “You’re not really going to arrest him and charge him with treason?” Reiko was horrified by the very idea. Even if Hirata deserved it, his family didn’t.

  “I gave him five days to put an end to the society and the conspiracy,” Sano said. “In the meantime, don’t tell Midori. There’s nothing she can do. She’ll only worry.”

  A frantic knocking shook the door. “Sano-san? Reiko-san? Are you awake?” It was Midori, breathless and panicky. “I need your help. Taeko is missing!”

  “What? Oh, no.” Alarmed, Reiko crawled out of bed, threw on her robe.

  Sano was already up and dressed. Reiko opened the door. Midori fell into her arms and began to cry. “I thought she was painting somewhere. But it started getting dark, and when she didn’t come in for dinner, I went looking for her. I can’t find her anywhere! No one’s seen her since this morning!”

  Reiko remembered her horror when Masahiro had been kidnapped. She tried to soothe Midori. “I’m sure Taeko is just fine.”

  “I’ll send out search parties.” Sano headed for the barracks.

  Midori thanked him and sobbed. Reiko hugged her friend. “Hush, or you’ll wake the other children.” She silently prayed that Hirata would get himself out of trouble and Midori would never have to know what he’d done.

  14

  In the wooded hills high above the city, at a place where the ground leveled onto a plateau, tall cedar trees surrounded a clearing. The circle of treetops framed a crescent moon that smiled down upon a wide, flat rock below. Footsteps crunched on dry leaves along a path that led to the clearing. Insects shrilled. An owl hooted and took flight with a flutter of wings.

  Light from the lanterns they carried preceded Tahara, Deguchi, and Kitano into the clearing. Hirata followed mutely, obediently, under their spell. Kitano swept leaves off the rock and set out a ceramic flask and a metal incense burner he’d brought in his knapsack. He lit the burner while Deguchi placed and lit oil lamps around the perimeter of the clearing. Hirata waited, an inert lump of flesh and misery. Purplish smoke and golden sparks issued from the burner, which was filled with a mixture of herbs from China, a recipe from the magic spell book. The other three men leaned over the burner and inhaled deeply.

  “You, too,” Tahara ordered.

  Resisting with all his might, Hirata obeyed. The smoke burned into his lungs, spread through his veins, and clouded his mind. Unnatural light colored the forest as vibrantly green as in daytime. Noises amplified. Small animals in the underbrush sounded like bulls charging. The moon’s smile enlarged and shrank with the throbbing of his heart.

  Tahara, Deguchi, and Kitano began to chant a spell in ancient Chinese. “Don’t just stand there,” Kitano said. “Chant.”

  Hirata helplessly recited the foreign, melodic syllables he’d memorized without understanding them. Tahara took a swig from the flask, then offered it to Hirata. “Drink up,” he said, his white smile flashing.

  Hirata’s hand lifted, closed around the flask, and poured the contents into his mouth. His throat muscles swallowed the potion he wanted to gag on and spit out. The potion tasted different every time. This time it seemed less a liquid than a sensation of jasmine-flavored ice splinters that vaporized before they reached his stomach. Tahara, Deguchi, and Kitano chanted louder, faster. Their images swam around Hirata. His voice kept pace with theirs. He felt a familiar, terrifying burn in his muscles, nerves, and bones.

  He was going into a trance.

  One moment he was in the clearing with Tahara, Deguchi, and Kitano. The next, he was alone at a crossroads in the middle of a vast field. Afternoon sunlight dazzled his eyes. The air was chilly, damp. He could move again. On both sides of the field rose mountains, the woods on them vivid with crimson, orange, and gold autumn foliage. He breathed the iron-and-salt smell of blood, the foul odors of death.

  The field was littered with men’s corpses. They wore armor tunics and leg guards, and metal helmets. Some had banners printed with clan insignias on poles attached to their backs. Some still clutched swords, spears, or arquebuses. They lay on grass that was red with their spilled blood. As Hirata gazed in horror at the carnage, vultures flocked amidst it. The air resounded with the buzzing of flies. A figure came trudging toward him, backlit by the sun, along the muddy road. He recognized the tall silhouette-the helmet crowned with horns shaped like an upended crescent moon, the flared ear guards and armor tunic, the jutting swords. Panic assailed Hirata. It was the ghost.

  The ghost accelerated his pace so fast that he cut a fiery streak across the landscape. He was standing within arm’s length of Hirata before Hirata could flee. Although his heart thudded with fear, curiosity immobilized Hirata. He took his first good look at the ghost by daylight. The ghost’s armor was made of small metal plates covered with black leather and laced together with blue silk cord. A circular crest with two crossed feathers in the center adorned his black lacquer breastplate. Chain mail encased his arms; leather gloves with metal backs protected his hands. His face was hidden by the brim and face shield of his helmet.

  “Who are you?” Hirata asked.

  “My name was Otani Yoshitsugu.” The ghost’s voice, echoing inside his helmet, had the resonant, booming cadence Hirata recalled. He removed the helmet. His head was bald, his face a raw, red sore that had eaten away at his nose. Filmy eyes stared from lidless sockets.

  Hirata shouted and recoiled.

  Otani burst out laughing. “I had leprosy when I was alive.” The sore suddenly healed. Eroded flesh grew back; new skin spread over sinews; hair sprouted into a sleek black topknot. “It no longer afflicts me now that I’m dead.” Otani had the face of a man some forty years old, with the mark of strong character in his slanted brows, shrewd eyes, and broad, firm mouth.

  “What is this place?” Hirata recovered enough to ask.

  Otani swept his gaze around the field. “This is where I died.”

  The valley was the site of the famous Battle of Sekigahara, in which Tokugawa Ieyasu-the shogun’s ancestor-had defeated his rivals, including Otani. The battle had apparently just ended. The trance had sent Hirata to the past.

  “When my side began losing the battle, I committed seppuku rather than be captured and executed. My retainer cut off my head.” Otani gestured toward the ground near Hirata.

  There Hirata saw Otani lying in the mud. His head was severed; it lay beside him. Its raw, disfigured face grimaced in agony. Then the vision dissolved. Beyond shock, Hirata looked up at Otani. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “To show you what I suffered at the hands of the ancestor of your lord. To show you why I seek revenge.”

  Hirata knew that the ghost was trying to break down his resistance. He couldn’t help admiring Otani, a samurai who’d followed the Way of the Warrior to the ultimate degree. But Hirata was also furious at Otani for leading him astray from his own honor.

  “To hell with your problems,” he said. “I’m not doing anything else for you.”

  He turned and ran down the road. O
tani’s image stayed in front of him. Hirata ran until he was gasping for breath, but he couldn’t escape the ghost. The corpse-strewn valley stretched ahead farther than he could see. Hirata shook his head, pressed his hands against his temples, and screamed, but he couldn’t break his trance.

  “I will let you go back to your world after I have told you what to do and you have promised to do it,” Otani said.

  Hirata collapsed, panting, to his knees in the mud. Bitter wind cooled the sweat on his face. “Damn you!”

  Otani said, “Kill Deguchi.”

  Rage gave way to shocked disbelief. “But … Deguchi is one of us. Why do you want me to kill him?”

  “Suffice it to say that he must die.”

  “How is his death supposed to help you destroy the Tokugawa regime?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “It is my business, when you’re telling me to commit murder!” Hirata pushed himself to his feet. “How am I supposed to kill Deguchi anyway? He’s a better martial artist than I am.”

  “Not by much.” Otani added, “Don’t tell Tahara or Kitano what I want you to do.”

  “They’ll want to know what you said. What am I supposed to tell them?”

  “Anything but the truth. Until you promise to kill Deguchi, you’ll stay here with me.”

  Hirata smelled the bloody corpses, saw the carrion birds feeding. He thought of his family and Sano. The ghost apparently had the power to keep him from ever returning to them. He weighed that against the prospect of killing a man for whom he had no love.

  “I promise,” he said.

  “Good,” Otani said, as if he’d never expected Hirata to do otherwise. “I’m granting you a new talent in exchange for your cooperation. You can levitate objects using mental energy. When your task is finished, we will meet again.”

  Hirata abruptly found himself back in the clearing.

  The darkness of the mild spring night engulfed the forest. His mind echoed with the parting words from Otani: “If you renege on your promise, I will kill you during your next trance. Die in a trance, and you die for real.”