Shin’s room was a mess. He did not allow the servants past the door as far as she knew. Clothes and books occupied every available surface. Among his other vices, he was a voracious reader of pillow books. The more lurid the better. She picked up one and tossed it over her shoulder with a snort.
Shin peered closely at strands of sacking material. It glistened slightly, and he released a soft chuff of satisfaction. “As I suspected.” He sat back and stretched.
“What is it?” Kasami asked, as she poured them both a cup of tea. It was decidedly aromatic. A special blend from the Dragon lands, imported at high tariff. Shin spent as much money on tea as he did on his clothes.
“Strands I collected from the sacking. Look here – see this residue? It’s beeswax. It was used to seal the slit made in the sack. The rats ate it.” He looked at her. “Someone slit the sack open, poisoned the rice and then carefully resealed it with beeswax to hide what they had done. But beeswax wouldn’t last long… varying temperatures and the attentions of hungry vermin would soon disperse it. So that gives us a very definite window of opportunity for the poison to be administered. It could only have been done while it was in transit.”
“You mean while it was on the river?” She frowned. “The crew, then?”
“No. I think not. Any rational captain would balk at such a scheme – they’d risk losing everything. And while greed can make a person do many things, I have a somewhat more realistic theory.”
“A shinobi,” Kasami said, anticipating him. While shinobi were hardly common, certain mercenary clans did exist on the fringes of society. Spying, sabotage, assassinations – these were their stock in trade. And while few samurai would admit to employing such individuals, they nonetheless somehow found an abundance of work.
Shin nodded. “They might have stowed away, done the deed and then slipped over the side just before the cargo reached its destination.” He held up a shred of silk – another sample, she thought. He squinted at it, as if it were a puzzle he had not yet solved. He set it aside and went back to the sacking.
“Why not just remain on the boat?”
Shin shook his head. “The Lion are assiduous about security. They routinely search each boat that enters their territory for contraband. While I have no doubt that a talented shinobi might avoid detection, why risk it?”
“They’d have to be a strong swimmer.”
“Or have a boat waiting.”
Kasami grunted, unimpressed by the suggestion. “I like my theory better. Greed is simple, and the average heimin captain is stupid. Show them enough coin and most of them would cheerfully ground their vessels and burn the cargo.” She paused when she saw that he was no longer listening. “What are you doing now?”
Shin set out the samples of rice. “Preparing to test the rice for poison.”
“We know it was poisoned.” She shook her head, annoyed by his obstinance. He seemed determined to make this affair into something more complex than it really was.
“But we do not know what type.”
“Why is that important?” What sort of fool cared about such inanities? Poison was poison. Its presence was more important than its name.
“Context,” Shin said. “The type of poison may point to the culprit, or at least give us a clearer idea as to the moment when the shipment was tainted.” He went to his shelves and collected several texts on poisons and medical herbology. Kasami frowned at the sight of them. He’d purchased them at no little expense several years before, for reasons that escaped her. Most of the volumes on his shelves were like that – purchased at a whim, and left to collect dust once he’d satiated his momentary curiosity.
“But you just said you already knew!”
“I do not know for certain. And the timing of the thing is as important as the nature of the poison. It all helps paint the picture.”
Kasami shook her head. “What picture? None of this helps us find who did it.”
“Oh, but it does. Think – this was not a matter of letting a few drops of night milk run down a wire into a sleeping man’s ear. It would require precise timing and preparation.”
Kasami took a sip of tea and shook her head. “We should be tracking down that boat. Then we’ll get answers.” To her way of thinking, the obvious answer was usually the correct one. Overly complicated schemes only happened in pillow books and bad theater.
“And we will. That is why I am paying a visit to Iuchi Shichiro tomorrow morning. It is the earliest he will see me. If the boat is on the Unicorn docks, he will know where it is.”
“What if he decides not to tell you?”
“Then we will have our second suspect.”
Kasami frowned. “Who’s our first?”
“Why, Akodo Minami.” Shin nodded at her exclamation of disbelief. “Is that so unthinkable? Minami is ambitious – driven. This may well provide her the opportunity. And remember her outburst – did that not seem somewhat telling to you?”
“No true samurai would do such a thing.” Kasami had not cared for Minami’s attitude, but she balked at accusing her of such behavior. It was all but inconceivable that a samurai might lower themselves so. There was a right way to pick a fight and that was not it. If Minami had wanted a war, she could have gotten one easily enough.
“No. And whatever else, she is that.” He closed the book before him. “It’s not fire biter, or night milk. That leaves some form of noxious poison. It is odorless and tasteless, else the rats would not have sampled it.” His expression sharpened. “Inheritance powder,” he murmured. “That has to be it.”
“I’ve never heard of it. What is it?”
“Deadly,” Shin said. He went to another shelf and selected a wooden box. He set it down on his writing desk and opened it, raising up a wooden shelf lined with stoppered vials and other alchemical accoutrements.
“Is that a poisoner’s box?” Kasami said, somewhat accusingly. Such boxes were banned in most regions, though not technically illegal. They contained various chemical paraphernalia that could be used to craft or detect poisons. That Shin had one didn’t surprise her, though she couldn’t help but wonder when he’d acquired it.
She often questioned the servants as to what Shin spent money on, mostly to make sure that he didn’t spend too much. His allowance was finite, and she had no intention of missing a meal because he wanted to buy some dusty text that was of no practical value. But no one had told her of this. And if they didn’t know, that meant Shin had snuck out to purchase it himself – which was even more worrisome.
Shin shrugged. “That depends entirely on how you feel about such things. Now, as I was saying… inheritance powder is meant to be doled out over days and weeks, a few drops at a time, mixed with food or drink. The victim becomes weak and ill, and eventually perishes. But the poison leaves few traces, visible only to those who know what to look for.” Carefully, he unstopped a vial. A stink like that of rotten eggs filled the room.
Gagging slightly, Shin dipped a wire into the vial and then shook a single drop of gleaming liquid into the mashed rice. She didn’t recognize the liquid, but then such things were of little concern to a samurai. A normal samurai, at any rate. As soon as the liquid touched the rice, a yellow froth formed on the surface. But only the rice taken from the tainted bag. The others showed no reaction at all that she could detect. Shin sighed and put the vial away. “I was right.”
Kasami stared at the vile colored froth. “What does it mean?”
“It means that whoever did this was not looking to kill. The amount of this poison required to render even a sack of rice deadly would be massive. If it had remained undiscovered, it would have made the recipients sick, but nothing more.”
“What if the object was simply to taint the supply?”
Shin shook his head. “It would require a far greater expenditure of effort if that were the case. Not bags, but boatloads. No,
whoever did this wanted it to be found before it left the storehouse. The question is – why? Who benefits, besides the Lion?”
Kasami frowned. “Then why do the Lion think the Unicorn are to blame?”
“That is a very good question, and one I shall put to Iuchi Shichiro tomorrow morning when I meet him. In the meantime, I think we deserve a bit of entertainment, eh?” He rubbed his hands together. “A meal out, perchance? Maybe a bit of fun afterwards?”
“And what would your guest think?”
Shin paused. “My guest?”
“The fat man from the theater, remember? You invited him.”
“Did I?” Shin looked surprised. “Why did I do that?”
Kasami shook her head and fought back the urge to smile. It was rare she got to remind Shin of his responsibilities so pointedly, and she was thoroughly enjoying it. “I’m sure I have no idea. You asked him to come before the next performance. That means he will be here soon – if he comes.”
“Perhaps he won’t?” Shin said, almost hopefully.
“You think a man like that would refuse such an invitation?”
“No. You are right.” Shin looked around the room and sighed. “I will be on the balcony. Let me know when he arrives.”
•••
Biwa in hand, Shin strolled onto the balcony of his room. The balcony overlooked the streets below. He’d insisted on it, despite Kasami’s protests. It wasn’t large – a little more than a shelf of wood, protected from the weather by screens on either side and at the top. A bench stretched across its width, and he took a seat with a sigh. The bench was raised slightly, allowing him a good view of the surrounding streets.
He sat and played, letting his gaze sweep across the street below. As he did so, he turned over what he had learned in his mind. The order of events seemed certain. The rice had been purchased, and delivered. At some point during the delivery, it had been poisoned. The sabotage had been discovered, the Lion had roared and now – what?
He paused. The discovery was the key. If the bag had not been damaged, if the rats had not gotten at the rice, the act would have remained undetected. Someone would have gotten sick, perhaps even died if they were of weak enough constitution, but while that might have embarrassed the Lion, it would not lead to the same result.
Namely, war. Or conflict, at least. Perhaps not open, but a contest of influence as the Lion attempted to bully concessions out of Tetsua and the Unicorn. Then, the Lion chafed at such things – they preferred open battle to the games of courtiers. So, war.
Had that, then, been the goal? The bag had not torn by accident. The cut had been too regular, too neat. Someone had ensured that the sabotage was discovered. Someone had desired this outcome, that seemed undeniable.
But war served no one. Not really. The river trade was too important to the empire as a whole. Whoever instigated such a conflict would suffer repercussions, if not immediately then eventually. A moment of glory was not worth a lifetime of censure. Not even the Lion would think that a fair trade.
Then, perhaps, provocation had been the point. An insult that the Lion would pounce upon and use as justification. The Unicorn would have no choice but to respond. But why the Unicorn? Shin frowned and stilled his biwa. He recalled Minami’s reaction to the question. There was something there. Something they had not told him.
Maybe Shichiro could spread some light on the matter. If not, he would have to risk the Lion’s wrath and visit Minami again. Someone was at fault, and the quicker he found them, the quicker the whole matter could be settled.
There was a tap at the door. He turned. Kasami slid it open and nodded. Shin sighed and rose. “Very well,” he said. “Bring him to the receiving room. And have one of the servants brew a fresh pot of Silver Needle as well, please.”
He set aside his biwa, annoyed with himself. Inviting the troupe-master – Sanemon – had been a momentary whim, and one he was regretting. Still, he was curious about the missing actress’ whereabouts, and solving a little mystery might be just the taster he needed to help him with the larger one.
Sanemon was already waiting for him downstairs when he arrived. Sanemon was not his real name, of course. It was possibly the name of the person who had founded the troupe, or the one who had taught Sanemon.
Stage names were passed through the generations, from teacher to student, parent to child. Such names held great honor and importance among the brotherhood of actors. To take up such a name was to embody the spirit of those who’d held it before.
However, the current owner of the name of Sanemon was a somewhat sad specimen. He was a small, portly man, with a deep chest and a deeper voice. The characters he occasionally portrayed on stage were often great, booming presences – much in contrast to the man behind the mask. Shin was somewhat disappointed to realize that the actor wore lifts in his sandals, in order to give himself height comparative to his voice.
Even so, he was an interesting fellow. The faint scars on his hands spoke to his life before the stage. A sailor perhaps, or a soldier. The way he walked inclined Shin towards the latter. Sailors often had a peculiar rolling gait that Sanemon lacked. He walked as if he were expecting a shower of arrows to descend at any moment.
Shin sat in meditative silence until the tea arrived, brought by one of the servants. It steamed between them, filling the air with its strong aroma. When the tea had fully steeped, Shin poured two cups and passed one to Sanemon. He huddled over it, as if afraid that someone was going to take it from him. His eyes darted about the receiving room nervously.
Without speaking, Shin took a sip of his own cup. The tea was sweet and fragrant. Finally, he said, “Thank you for accepting my invitation. It is rare of late that I get to speak with an artist such as yourself.”
Sanemon perked up slightly at this. “The honor is all mine, my lord. But I am curious as to the nature of the invitation…?” The question held a hint of anticipation. Many samurai took it upon themselves to act as patrons for artists of various stripes. Sanemon might suspect that such was the case here. If so, he was going to be disappointed. While Shin had often considered doing so, it was simply out of the question at the moment.
“I wished to ask you a question,” Shin said. Sanemon leaned forward, head cocked theatrically. “Your lead actress – I noticed she was not in evidence during the last performance. Nothing is amiss, I hope?”
Sanemon’s expression crumbled comically. “You – you noticed?”
“How could I not? Is she ill, perhaps? If so, I would be willing to offer the services of my personal physician.”
Sanemon looked away. “She is – she is unwell, yes.”
“As I said, I am happy to provide a physician…”
“No!” Sanemon flushed. “No. That is not necessary, my lord. Just a touch of something. She will be back on stage in a few days, I assure you…” He was babbling, desperate. Had he been on stage, Shin might have accused him of overacting. But the look on Sanemon’s face was real enough. Fear – and worry. Not for himself.
“You are lying,” Shin said, and took a sip of his tea. “Why?”
Sanemon’s torrent of excuses slowed to a trickle. “I assure you, my lord, I am not – I mean, that is to say–”
Shin cut him off with a sharp gesture. “I am not some provincial lord or magistrate, eager to prove his authority. I will not take your head for having the temerity to tell a falsehood. Just explain.”
Sanemon swallowed. “She’s gone.”
“Gone? Where?”
“I – we – don’t know.” He hesitated. “She’s missing.”
“How long?”
Another hesitation. “A day. Almost two, now.”
“Have you informed anyone?”
Sanemon looked down. “Who would we inform, my lord? We have no patron, and there is no evidence of wrongdoing. She is simply… gone.” He set his cu
p down. “Thank you for your hospitality, my lord. I must be going.”
“Sit,” Shin said, softly. Sanemon jolted, but did not rise. He kept his eyes downcast and said nothing. Shin sighed and set his cup aside. “Why are you frightened?”
Sanemon said nothing. Shin frowned, wondering how best to approach the situation. He decided that being direct was best. “I wish to help you. But I cannot if you do not tell me what is wrong. Has someone taken her against her will?”
The other man cleared his throat. He was silent for a few moments, as if trying to think of what to say. Shin waited patiently. Despite being an actor, Sanemon appeared to be a terrible liar. Finally, he said, “She was… meeting someone.”
“An admirer?” Shin asked, feeling a flash of irritation. He should have realized that a woman such as Okuni had admirers. Was he not one himself?
“I do not know,” Sanemon said. He sighed, and there was no melodrama in the sound. Only a sort of paternal resignation. “All I know is that she was to meet someone, and she did not return from that meeting.”
“And you fear that she has come to harm?” Shin asked. Sanemon was not lying; nor was he telling the entire truth. He was hiding something. The thought intrigued Shin.
Sanemon looked away. “Not all admirers are welcome, my lord. Many an actress, and not a few actors, have come to bad ends because of a patron’s unwarranted and unreciprocated obsession.”
Shin sat back. He’d heard similar stories. The life of a traveling kabuki player could be dangerous, and not simply for the reasons one might expect. He made a decision. “Do you know where this meeting was taking place?”
“I do, my lord.” Sanemon looked at him, a hopeful glint in his eyes. “An alleyway near the theater. Do you think that you can find her, my lord?”
“I think that I can make the attempt.” Shin stood and Sanemon scrambled to his feet. “And I will begin tomorrow – after an errand or two.”
“I- I don’t know what to say, my lord. I cannot – we cannot repay you for this kindness…” Sanemon began, hesitantly.
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