“I’ll ask you one more time,” Sano said. “Where is Lord Arima?”
Inaba’s squashed features glistened with sweat and his eyes with terror, but he said insolently, “I already told you: I don’t know. You’re wasting your time.”
But Sano was determined to find out more than Lord Arima’s whereabouts. He believed Lord Arima was the key to figuring out more than the two murders. “I bet I can persuade you to change your mind.”
“How? By torturing me?” Inaba forced a laugh. “You won’t. You’re too squeamish. Everybody knows your reputation.”
Everybody did know that Sano was opposed to torture even though it was a legal means for forcing people to talk. Many thought him a coward about inflicting pain. But although he was capable of it, he’d always found other means worth trying first.
“I can make an exception for you,” he said, “but instead I’m going to offer you a deal. You have two choices: Either you talk to me, or you talk to Lord Matsudaira.”
“What do you mean?” Inaba said, disconcerted.
“Answer my questions, or I’ll drop you off at Lord Matsudaira’s estate. He would be interested to know that your master has skipped town and where he is.”
Panic tensed Inaba. Everybody knew Lord Matsudaira didn’t share Sano’s qualms about torture. Inaba’s gaze lifted to the ceiling, in the futile hope of climbing out the skylights or in prayer to the gods. “All right, I’ll tell you. Lord Arima is on his way to his province, disguised as one of his own soldiers.”
Sano said, “I don’t like that answer.” He could track down Lord Arima eventually, but not soon enough, and he sensed Inaba was hiding something. He started toward the door and beckoned his troops. “Let’s go.”
Inaba cried, “No! Wait!”
“You’re the one who objected to wasting time,” Sano said. “Be glad that Lord Matsudaira will make quick work of you.”
Inaba fell forward onto his hands. They clawed the earthen floor as if trying to root himself in it. Gasping and frantic, he said, “I know things you’ll want to hear. Spare me, and I’ll tell you.”
Sano knew that if he was too eager for information, the man would feed him a pack of lies. “Spare me the bluffing.” His troops closed in on Inaba. Sano kept moving. “We’re finished.”
The troops dragged Inaba toward the door. He cried, “Lord Arima was responsible for ambushing your wife!”
Surprise halted Sano. He turned to face Inaba and signaled his troops to pause.
“It’s true! Lord Arima had spies watching your house.” Straining against the troops while they held his arms and legs, Inaba said, “When Lady Reiko went out in her palanquin, they alerted him. He sent the assassins after her. He had them wear Lord Matsudaira’s crest. He wanted you to think they were sent by Lord Matsudaira.”
Sano remembered how strenuously Lord Matsudaira had denied attacking Reiko. “Weren’t they?”
“No. Lord Matsudaira didn’t even know. It was all Lord Arima’s idea.”
Lord Matsudaira had been telling the truth: He hadn’t given the order to kill Reiko; he hadn’t employed his own troops. But he was just as responsible as if he had. “So Lord Arima does Lord Matsudaira’s dirty work and Lord Matsudaira keeps his hands clean,” Sano said. “That’s what lackeys are for. So what?”
“So I thought you’d be interested,” Inaba said, anxious to please, yet put out by Sano’s indifference.
“Oh, I am. And when I catch Lord Arima, he’ll pay. But why should I let you go just for telling me that?” Sano eyed Inaba with scorn. “Why shouldn’t I just hand you over to Lord Matsudaira and let him save me the trouble of killing you for everything your master has done?”
Slyness gleamed through the panic in Inaba’s eyes. “Because that’s not all there is to the story. Lord Arima hasn’t only done Lord Matsudaira’s dirty work—he’s done yours.”
“What are you talking about?” Sano was tired of Inaba’s efforts to manipulate him, but at last the man had truly snared his attention.
“The bomb at Lord Matsudaira’s estate. That was Lord Arima’s doing, too. He was there that day. So was I. My job was to distract the Matsudaira guards while our men sneaked up to the women’s quarters and threw the bomb.”
Sano stared in outrage as well as astonishment. “I never asked Lord Arima to do any such thing.”
Inaba smirked despite his terror. “Just as Lord Matsudaira never asked Lord Arima to assassinate your wife. Just as neither you nor Lord Matsudaira asked him to ambush each other’s troops or destroy each other’s property on all those past occasions. He did it entirely on his own. He had each of you blaming the other, as he intended.”
Sano realized that his suspicions were well founded: The series of attacks that had escalated their conflict weren’t Lord Matsudaira’s fault any more than they were his own. Even as Sano felt awash in confusion, a thought occurred to him. “When Lord Arima betrayed Lord Matsudaira, it wasn’t only because the shogun threatened him, was it?”
“Call off your dogs, and I’ll tell you,” Inaba said.
“Release him,” Sano ordered.
The troops flung Inaba on the floor. He landed with a thud, winced, and said, “No. Lord Arima wanted to deal a blow to Lord Matsudaira. When the shogun put the question to him, that was his once-in-a-lifetime chance.”
Sano shook his head. “If what you’re saying is true, then why would he tip the balance in my favor when he’s clearly no friend of mine?”
Inaba smiled, relishing Sano’s confusion. “He would have told the shogun that you’re Lord Matsudaira’s rival for power, but he didn’t have time before all hell broke loose.”
“So Lord Arima was playing against both sides,” Sano concluded. “Why?”
“He kept it to himself.” Inaba’s voice was thick with rancor toward his master for leaving him in the dark, leaving him to suffer the consequences. “He told his people only as much as he thought they needed to know. I have no idea.”
Hirata rode across the Nihonbashi Bridge, alone in the scant traffic moving along its high wooden arch. He felt like a nobody even as peasants made way for him and samurai bowed polite greetings. Rigid with unhappiness, he inhaled deeply. Through the acrid smoke that obscured the night sky, he smelled the distant ocean, mountains, and forests. He longed for the faraway places where he’d traveled. How he missed his nomadic life, the blessed freedom from personal complications!
He recalled how ambitious he’d once been, how eager to climb the ranks of the bakufu. Now the high position he’d achieved didn’t matter. Without Midori’s love, there seemed nothing left in Edo for him. Hirata looked over the railing of the bridge at a boat floating down the canal to the river to the sea, and he wished he were on it. But he had his duty to Sano to fulfill.
That, at least, he could manage.
At the foot of the bridge was the first station of the Tokaido, the highway that led from Edo to points west. On one side of the road lined with inns and shops stood the post house. The white plaster building was the checkpoint through which everyone entering town must pass. Its courtyard contained stables for packhorses and an area where the men who carried kago—basket chairs suspended from poles—waited for fares. At this late hour, few people straggled into town.
A merchant in a kago, his servants carrying iron money chests, and his ronin security guards lined up outside the window of the post house. Inside by the window sat two clerks, examining the travelers’ documents by the light of a lantern. Hirata dismounted, marched up to the window, and cut in front of the merchant. The merchant looked annoyed, but noticed the Tokugawa crests on Hirata’s garments and didn’t object.
Hirata stated his name and title to the clerks. One was a gray-haired samurai who’d probably worked as an inspector for so long that no faked travel passes could ever fool him. “How may we serve you, master?”
“I’m trying to trace a man who recently arrived in town,” Hirata said. “Could you look him up in your records?”
>
The second clerk had a stout body and an expression that brooked no nonsense. “What’s his name?” He hefted a stack of ledgers onto the counter.
“He’s dead now. His name was Egen.”
Something about the tutor had never smelled right to Hirata. Although he couldn’t define exactly what, his senses had perceived a wrongness in the energy field that Egen had emitted.
The stout clerk paged through listings of people who’d entered Edo. “When did he come?”
Hirata didn’t know exactly. “Start three days ago and work backward.”
The gray-haired clerk helped, reading over his colleague’s shoulder, to the displeasure of the people waiting in the line. Finally the stout clerk said, “We’ve gone back five months and still haven’t found your man.”
Egen had lied to the shogun. Had he also lied when he’d told the people at the inn that he’d arrived recently? Hirata said, “Maybe you remember him. He was over sixty years old, and he was covered with terrible pockmarks.”
“As a matter of fact I do,” the gray-haired clerk said, his sharp eyes brightening.
“So do I. That face of his wasn’t something you’d forget,” said the other clerk. “He came through here not a month ago.”
“He was a good singer,” said his colleague. “He entertained everybody in line while he waited his turn.”
Hirata remembered Egen addressing the shogun in his dramatic, resonant voice. “He must be the same man. Why isn’t his name in the ledger?”
“Because his name wasn’t Egen,” said the gray-haired clerk. “I remember now—it was Arashi.” He leafed through the ledger, turned it around for Hirata to see, and pointed at a column of written characters. “Here he is.”
Hirata read the full name, Arashi Kodenji. In the space provided for recording the traveler’s place of residence was written Shinagawa, the highway post town nearest Edo. Hirata frowned in surprise as he saw what was listed as Arashi Kodenji’s occupation.
Actor.
Sano met up with Hirata on the main street that ran through the Nihonbashi merchant district. The moon ascended the smoky sky above the rooftops, pale as a dead carp floating in a polluted pond. Hirata maneuvered his horse into step beside Sano’s. They rode at the head of Sano’s entourage, past shops closed for the night. A brigade of firemen carrying ladders trudged across a side street. Their faces were black with soot. They trailed the odor of smoke.
“I have news,” Hirata said.
“So do I,” Sano said. “You go first.”
“The man we thought was Egen the tutor actually wasn’t.” Hirata described his visit to the post house. “His real name was Arashi Kodenji. He was an actor from Shinagawa.”
“Today is certainly a day for revelations.” As Sano recovered from his surprise, he absorbed the implications of Hirata’s news. “So this Arashi Kodenji impersonated the tutor.”
“He acted the part of Egen as if it were a role in a Kabuki play,” Hirata said. “His scars probably kept him from getting lead roles on the stage, but they were an advantage in this case.”
“If he happened to run into people who’d known Egen, they would think his face had been disfigured by the pox and that was why he didn’t look like the man they remembered. That’s what happened with my mother.” Sano recalled how shocked she’d been at seeing how much her onetime lover had changed.
“That was quite a show he put on at the palace,” Hirata said, his disgust tinged with admiration.
Sano smiled ruefully. “It must have been the biggest performance of his life. I recall thinking it seemed theatrical.”
“But why would he tell lies about a woman he didn’t even know? Certainly not just for the attention.”
“More likely for money,” Sano said. “We can assume that’s how he got rich.”
“And we can guess where the money came from.” But Hirata sounded uncertain. “Maybe I’ve underestimated Lord Matsudaira, but I never thought him devious enough to do something as original as hiring an actor to impersonate your key witness.”
Suspicions that had arisen in Sano’s mind since he’d begun investigating the first murder now revolved around the new facts about the second victim. “I don’t think he is. This situation smells more rotten than Lord Matsudaira.”
“You’re right. But then who—?”
Sano was beginning to get the idea. “Before I tell you, listen to my news.” He described how he’d learned that Lord Arima was behind the ambush of Reiko, the bombing of Lord Matsudaira’s estate, and the many other attacks that Sano and Lord Matsudaira had mistakenly attributed to each other. “Lord Arima wasn’t Lord Matsudaira’s ally as he pretended to be. But he wasn’t mine, either.”
Hirata shook his head, astonished. “Lord Arima played you off against each other, then betrayed Lord Matsudaira to the shogun. Why? Did he think he could make a bid for power himself?”
Sano’s ideas shifted in the new light cast by the revelation about the fake tutor. “At first I thought so. His chief retainer couldn’t supply any other explanation.” He’d interrogated Inaba about Lord Arima’s motives, in vain. Even the threat of being handed over to Lord Matsudaira had failed. Finally, realizing he’d exhausted the man’s knowledge, Sano had sent Inaba home. “But now I doubt Lord Arima wanted to make a power play. He’s not that reckless.”
“His army isn’t big enough, and he’s not popular enough to attract support,” Hirata agreed. “Besides, he skipped town instead of taking advantage of the upheaval he caused and moving into Lord Matsudaira’s position.”
They left the merchant quarter and entered the daimyo district. A procession of samurai on horseback rode toward them. “Aren’t those friends of yours?” Hirata asked.
Sano noted the banners that bore the crests of three feudal lords who’d sworn allegiance to him. As the men passed, they didn’t so much as look in Sano’s direction. He saw the other banners that their troops wore on poles attached to their backs. These sported the triple-hollyhock-leaf Tokugawa crests.
“It was inevitable,” Sano said. “My allies are deserting me and rallying around the shogun.”
They’d clearly decided to join forces with the shogun, who had the hereditary right to rule, the sanction of the emperor, and a strong following of old-time loyalists who’d never approved of Sano. Which meant that Sano had fewer allies to defend him in the event of war.
“Lord Matsudaira’s allies are probably doing the same thing,” Hirata said.
“True, but that won’t help me if I don’t solve the murders.” Sano turned the conversation back to the subject they’d been discussing. “We have the same situation with Lord Arima as with the fake tutor. Both of them acting strangely, neither on his own.”
“They were both working for somebody else,” Hirata concluded.
“We didn’t run across any evidence that they knew each other, but there’s a connection between them.”
“The murder of the actor.”
“Yes. Ishikawa and Ejima said that Lord Arima sent them to kill the man we thought was the tutor. At first I didn’t know whether to believe them, but now …” Sano accepted their dying confession as the truth. “And I don’t believe Lord Arima did the murder for Lord Matsudaira.”
Puzzlement creased Hirata’s brow. “Then who could it be that they and the actor were working for?”
“Don’t laugh when you hear,” Sano warned. They were nearing Edo Castle. Although the boulevard was deserted, Sano knew that spies lurked in shadows, and he refrained from naming a name. “I think it’s an old friend we thought was safely out of the picture.”
As Hirata comprehended Sano’s meaning, his expression rearranged into shock. “That can’t be. If he were back, how could he have kept it a secret?”
“He’s clever, and he has supporters to hide him. Besides, this situation stinks of him.”
“The reports from Hachijo don’t say a word about any escaped prisoners,” Hirata pointed out.
“You and I
both know that reports don’t always tell the truth.”
“But how can you be so sure?” Hirata eyed Sano as if questioning his sanity.
“I just am.”
Sano’s certainty was more than a hunch built from odd incidents and facts and glued together with logic. For eleven years he and the man had lived through rivalry and truce, through violence, bloodshed, and the threat of death, through clashes and collaboration. Sano had come to know the man as well as himself. He knew the pattern of the man’s thoughts, the distinct texture of his vision. The two of them had developed a preternatural awareness of each other, as if the space between them were charged with energy like the air before a thunderstorm. When one moved, the other felt the sensation in his nerves.
Sano had felt that sensation for some time now. One thing happening after another had made it grow stronger, impossible to let common sense push to the back of his mind anymore. “If I’m right, it would explain a lot of things.”
“Such as the increase in activity by his underground partisans,” Hirata said, not convinced but willing to test the theory. “Add to that the attacks on Lord Matsudaira—who’s his biggest enemy—and on you, the man who took his post.”
“Those attacks include the one in Ezogashima last winter,” Sano said.
“We were never able to determine who threw that knife at you,” Hirata recalled.
“I suspected then, and I do now, that our friend sent an assassin to kill me in Ezogashima,” Sano said.
“If he knew you were going there, and if he knows enough about the murder investigation to meddle in it, then he must be close by.”
Sano could almost see the shadow of a tall, familiar figure move across their path. Hirata lifted his head, and his nostrils flared as if smelling their old adversary’s scent.
“He must have friends at court who keep him well informed.” Sano could guess whom they included. He thought of Yoritomo’s strange behavior. More mysteries became less perplexing.
“Suppose you are right,” Hirata said. “We can’t let him keep pulling strings and wreaking havoc from behind the scenes. But we can’t hit an invisible target, either. What are we going to do?”
The Fire Kimono (2008) Page 22
