Cloud of Sparrows (7 page)

Kudo watched as Heiko stopped to chat with yet another shopkeeper. How was it possible for someone to have a destination and yet progress so slowly toward it? He left the main street and cut through a narrow alleyway. He would move ahead and observe Heiko as she approached. If she suspected someone was following her, her suspicion would more easily be visible from an unexpected viewpoint. That in itself would confirm deception on her part, for a geisha without hidden motivations would never be wary of surveillance.

Two men were carrying refuse from the back of a shop as Kudo turned the corner. They saw him and dissolved in fear. Their burdens fell to the ground, and they dropped down, faces in the dirt, groveling. On hands and knees, they scrambled backward out of his path, struggling to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible.

Eta.
Kudo’s face twisted into a grimace of disgust. His hand went to the hilt of his sword.
Eta.
Filthy outcasts whose fate it was to do the foulest, most disgusting tasks. To even permit themselves to be seen by one of Kudo’s rank warranted their immediate death. But if he killed them, it would cause a commotion, attracting attention, and defeating his purpose. He left his sword sheathed and hurried past.
Eta.
The very thought of them made him feel unclean.

Kudo reentered the main street a hundred paces ahead of where he had last seen Heiko. Yes, there she was, still wasting time with the same shopkeeper.

Some chattering women momentarily obscured Kudo’s view of his subject. When they passed, neither Heiko nor her maid was anywhere to be seen. He ran to the shop where she had last dallied. She wasn’t there.

How had that happened? One moment he had been looking at her. The next moment she was gone. Geisha did not move that way. Ninja did.

Kudo turned to retrace his steps to the palace in Tsukiji, more uneasy than ever. And nearly collided with Heiko.

“Kudo-sama,” Heiko said. “What a coincidence. Are you shopping for silk scarves, too?”

“No, no,” Kudo said, fumbling for an explanation. He was not at his best when taken by surprise. “I am going to the temple at Hamacho. To make offerings for ancestors fallen in battle.”

“How laudable,” Heiko said. “My interest in scarves is shallow and useless in comparison.”

“Not at all, Lady Heiko. For you, scarves are as important as swords for a samurai.” The idiocy of his words made Kudo cringe inside. The more he talked, the more foolish he would seem. “Well, I must be on my way.”

“Will you not tarry a few moments to take tea with me, Kudo-sama?”

“Nothing would give me more pleasure, Lady Heiko, but my duties require a speedy return. I must hurry to the temple, and hurry back to the palace.” With a quick bow, Kudo strode swiftly west in the direction of Hamacho. If he had been paying attention, instead of hallucinating that Heiko might be a ninja, he would have saved himself this lengthy detour. When he looked back, he saw her bow to him. Since she was watching, he had to continue on for quite a way before it was safe to change course.

Gritting his teeth, he silently berated himself all the way back to Tsukiji.

So in this dream she perceived his thoughts. The world outside of dreams would be a better place if all minds were as open books. Then there would be no need of pretense or of shame. Sin, repentance, and salvation could occur at once, in the same moment.

“Rest, Zephaniah,” Emily said. “There is no need to think of anything at all.”

Yes. She was right. He tried to touch her hair, but he had no arm to raise. Cromwell felt himself grow lighter. How was that possible, if he was already weightless? Thoughts did not adhere. His eyes closed and he left this dream for another.

Emily paled. “Is he dead?”

“He’s drifting in and out of delirium,” Stark said.

They had brought Cromwell into the guest wing of the palace. He lay on a bed of thick cushions spread on the floor. A middle-aged Japanese man, whom they presumed to be a doctor, examined Cromwell, applied a strong-smelling salve to the wound, and bandaged it. Before he left, the doctor called a trio of young women over to the bedside. Showing them the salve and the bandage, the doctor gave brief instructions, then bowed to Emily and Stark and departed. The young women retreated to the edge of the room and waited there on folded knees, still and quiet.

Emily sat at Cromwell’s right side on a cushion three feet square. Stark sat on a similar cushion to the left. Neither of them was comfortable on the floor. They lacked the arts of seated posture in which their Japanese hosts were clearly well practiced. Stark could make his legs bend, but he couldn’t keep them there for long. He shifted from one position to another every few moments. For Emily, her long skirt and voluminous petticoats made it that much more difficult to arrange her limbs in an acceptable posture. Finally, she settled herself on one hip and extended her legs out to the side, careful to keep them covered with her skirt. It was how she used to sit at picnics in her childhood, not entirely appropriate here, but the only way she could manage.

“We bring nothing with us but the word of Christ,” Emily said. She wiped the sweat from Cromwell’s face with a cool, wet towel. “Why would anyone wish us harm?”

“I don’t know, Sister Emily.” Stark had seen the glint of metal on the roof an instant before the assassin fired. He dove for the ground before the sound of the gun reached his ears. If he had not done so, the bullet would have struck him instead of Cromwell. Stark’s alertness was the preacher’s misfortune. That and enough bad luck of his own. After missing Stark, the bullet went in one side of the palanquin and out the other. It should have struck Emily, but somehow it had not. Instead, upon exiting, it bore a hole straight into Cromwell’s belly. Gutshot. Men sometimes took weeks to die when they were gutshot.

“He looks so peaceful,” Emily said. “His brow is unfurrowed and he smiles as he sleeps.”

“Yes, Sister Emily, he looks very peaceful.” The more Stark thought about it, the more likely it seemed that he had been the assassin’s target. Money would have changed hands. A hireling would have gone on the roof to kill a man he had never seen. Mutually incomprehensible languages posed no barrier. Stark had no doubt money bought death in Japan as easily as it did in America.

He stretched his legs for a few moments, to keep them from cramping. Every time he moved, the four samurai on guard became more alert. They knelt in the hallway outside the room. It was not clear if they were there to protect the missionaries or to imprison them. Ever since the shooting, they had been watching him closely. Stark didn’t know why.

“The bandages will have to be changed frequently,” Dr. Ozawa said. “I have given him medicine that will reduce the bleeding, but it cannot be stopped altogether. Major arteries were severed. The bullet itself is lodged against the base of his spine. It cannot be removed.”

“How long?” Genji asked.

The doctor shook his head. “Hours if he is fortunate. Days if he is not.” He bowed and made his exit.

“How inauspicious,” Genji said. “The American consul will have to be informed. Harris. A most unpleasant individual.”

Saiki said, “Lord, that bullet was meant for you.”

“I doubt that. My enemies would not send such a poor marksman. How could he aim at me and hit a palanquin ten feet away?”

A maid entered with a fresh pot of tea. Saiki impatiently waved her off, but Genji accepted another cup. The hot brew took the edge off the winter chill.

“I have examined the palanquin,” Saiki said. “Had you been in it, as everyone would expect, you would have been killed instantly. Only her barbaric posture saved the outsider woman’s life.”

“Yes, I know. I saw that for myself.” Genji smiled at the maid. She colored, embarrassed to receive his attention, and bowed deeply to the floor. She was charming, Genji thought, and pretty enough, though a little old to be unmarried. Twenty-two or -three, he guessed. What was her name? Hanako. He considered the men of his bodyguard. Which one of them was in need of a wife, and was of the proper age to appreciate this maid? “I was not in the palanquin, however. I was in plain sight outside of it.”

“Precisely my point,” Saiki said. “An assassin who does not know you would not think to find you on foot. What Great Lord walks while a female outsider rides? Also, you were not wearing the crest of your house. That, too, is unheard of. So he expected you to be where you should have been, and put his bullet there.”

“Tortured reasoning,” Genji said.

Hidé and Shimoda arrived at the door, breathing hard. They were the bodyguards Saiki had sent after the assassin.

“Forgive us, lord,” Hidé said. “There was no sign of him anywhere.”

Shimoda said, “No one saw anything. It was as if he disappeared into thin air.”

“Ninja,” Saiki said. “Accursed cowards. They should all be put to the sword, down to the last woman and child.”

“The building belongs to a grocer named Fujita,” Hidé said. “A simple man. No involvement with unsavory characters, no connections to any clan, no debts, no daughters in bondage in the Floating World. He is unlikely to be involved. Of course, he is terrified of your retribution. Without being asked, he insisted on supplying all the provisions for our New Year’s festivities.”

Genji laughed. “Then he would be bankrupt, and he would be forced to sell all his daughters into the Floating World.”

“That would not bring him much credit, lord,” Hidé said with a smile. “I have seen the daughters.”

Saiki slapped the floor. “Hidé! Remember your place!”

“Yes, sir!” The chastised samurai pressed his head to the floor.

“We need not be so harsh,” Genji said. “This has been a trying morning. Hidé, how old are you?”

“Lord?” Hidé was taken aback by the unexpected question. “Twenty-nine, lord.”

“How is it that you are unmarried at such an advanced age?”

“Uh, lord, uh . . .”

“Speak up,” Saiki said, “and stop wasting our lord’s time.” This was all a waste of time as far as he was concerned. What frivolity was Genji engaging in now? With his life in danger and the existence of the clan itself threatened, he was playing some silly game.

“The opportunity has never presented itself, lord,” Hidé said.

Saiki said, “The truth is, Hidé has an excessive fondness for women, wine, and gambling. His debts are such that no one of good family would even consider the burden of marriage with him.” Saiki gave the information to hurry things along. Then perhaps they could return to more pressing matters. The extremely suspicious outsider Stark, for example.

“What is your debt?” Genji asked.

Hidé hesitated. “Sixty
ryo,
lord.” That was a massive sum for one of his station. His annual stipend was ten ryo.

“Undisciplined idiot,” Saiki said.

“Yes, sir.” Hidé pressed his head to the floor once more, genuinely mortified.

“Your debts will be discharged,” Genji said. “See to it that you do not accumulate new ones. In fact, now that you are solvent, I advise you to immediately find a wife. Someone with household experience, so she may guide you in remaining solvent, and show you the ways of domestic bliss.”

“Lord.” Hidé remained down in the deepest possible bow. Lord Genji’s generosity astounded him.

“In fact, I myself will look into it for you,” Genji said. “Will you trust me in this matter?”

“Yes, lord. Thank you.”

“Hanako,” Genji said, “show these men to another room where they may recover from their recent exertions. Remain there to serve them.”

“Yes,” Hanako said. Bowing gracefully, she led Hidé and Shimoda from the room.

When they were gone, Saiki made a deep formal bow of respect to Genji. At last he understood what had taken place. In the midst of a crisis that could take his life, Lord Genji had not ceased to think of those in his care. The housemaid, Hanako, was an orphan. Despite her good manners and womanly charm, she was highly unlikely to find a worthy match on her own. She had no family connections to offer, and no dowry. Hidé, an excellent samurai in most respects, needed the weight of responsibility in order to fully mature. Left to himself, he would continue to squander his time and his money on worthless diversions. In the end, he would be a useless sot, like so many of the samurai of the other, degenerate clans, and not a few of their own. All this Lord Genji had cured with a single stroke. Tears came to the gruff warrior’s eyes.

“What’s this, Saiki? Have I died and become a deity?”

“Lord,” Saiki said, too deeply moved to speak further, unable even to bring his head from the floor. Once again, he had misjudged the depth of his lord’s character.

Genji reached for his teacup. The other maid, Michiko, bowed and refilled it. She was already married, so Genji smiled at her, but gave her no further thought. He drank his tea and waited patiently for Saiki to recover. Samurai were strange creatures. They were expected to endure the most atrocious physical tortures without a single complaint. Yet they felt free to weep when they witnessed nothing more serious than the beginnings of a marriage arrangement.

After a time, Saiki raised his head and roughly brushed away his tears with a single sweep of his kimono’s sleeve. “Lord, you must consider the possibility that the missionaries are somehow involved in the plot against you.”

“If there is a plot.”

“The one called Stark anticipated the firing of the assassin’s gun. I saw him diving for cover before I called out. That means he knew the man was there.”

“Or it means he is highly observant.” Genji shook his head. “It is good to be on guard against treachery. But there is such a thing as seeing too much treachery everywhere. We must not let our imaginings distract us from real danger. Stark has only just arrived from America. There are assassins enough in Japan. Who would go through the complication of bringing one from outside?”

“Perhaps someone who wishes to obscure any hint of his identity with an additional veil of confusion,” Saiki said. “Someone who you would not otherwise suspect.”

Genji sighed. “Very well. You may look into the matter further. But please, do not intrude too much on Stark. He is our guest.”

Saiki bowed. “Yes, lord.”

Genji said, “Let us see how they fare.”

On their way down the hall, Saiki thought to ask about the grocer whose building the assassin had used. “What shall we do about Fujita’s offer?”

“Convey our thanks and say we will permit him to supply the New Year’s sake.”

“Yes, lord,” Saiki said. That will be costly enough to relieve the grocer’s fear, but not so costly as to be destructive. A wise decision. Saiki followed his lord with ever-increasing confidence.

The Dutch celestial telescope took Kawakami’s eye onto the rooftops above Genji’s procession. Although his angle of view prevented him from seeing that particular street, he knew where the entourage was by the behavior of people at the one intersection not obstructed by buildings. When they threw themselves to the ground, the lord was approaching. When they rose and resumed their activities, he had passed.

Kawakami was greatly amused to see Monzaemon, the rich merchant banker, hastily stumble from his famous white horse and grovel in the dirt like any other peasant, despite his sartorial finery. Many of the Great Lords were in Monzaemon’s debt. The Shogun himself owed the insufferable little man vast sums. Yet there he was, face pressed against the ground at the passage of his betters. Money was one thing. The privilege of wearing two swords and the right to use them freely, that was quite another. No matter how much and how rapidly the world changed, Kawakami was certain of one thing. The power to buy would never match the power to kill.

Kawakami thought he heard the sound of a single distant gunshot. As he watched through the telescope, Monzaemon jerked his head up from the ground, a look of fear on his fat peasant’s face. The white horse beside him reared in panic. Only the quick action of one of his servants prevented him from being trampled to death.

Something had happened. He would have to wait to find out what. He stepped away from the telescope.

“I will be in the garden cottage,” he said to his assistant, Mukai. “Do not disturb me unless the matter is urgent.”

Kawakami went to the cottage alone. It was not much more than a simple shed in one of the smaller gardens of the vast castle. Yet it provided him with the greatest pleasure of his life.