Red Chrysanthemum (15 page)

“Oh, Father, I’m so glad you’re back!” Radiant with joy, Yoritomo fell to his knees before Yanagisawa and wept.

Tears stung Yanagisawa’s own eyes. He raised Yoritomo up and they embraced fiercely. “Are you well, my son?” he said in a voice gruff with affection. He held Yoritomo at arm’s length, the better to feast on the sight of him. “How has the shogun been treating you?”

“I’m fine. His Excellency is very kind.” In three years Yoritomo had become a full-fledged adult, but he retained his boyish air of innocence. “I’m still his favorite companion.”

Yoritomo was more than just a companion; he was the shogun’s lover. The shogun had had a long romantic liaison with Yanagisawa, who’d parlayed his influence over the shogun into control over the regime. Now Yoritomo held the same advantageous position. The shogun’s fondness had protected him after Lord Matsudaira had defeated Yanagisawa. Although Lord Matsudaira had exiled Yanagisawa’s family, Yoritomo remained in Edo because the shogun had insisted on keeping him.

“I’m delighted to hear that you’re still close to the shogun,” Yanagisawa said.

He was even more relieved. Yoritomo represented his second chance at gaining permanent power over Japan. Yoritomo had Tokugawa blood—from his mother, a relative of the shogun—and rumor had said that he was heir apparent to the dictatorship. Yanagisawa had started the rumor himself. He meant to make it a reality and rule Japan through Yoritomo someday. But even though Yanagisawa would use Yoritomo as he used everyone he could, his son was more than just a tool. He’d never cared as much for anyone as he did Yoritomo. He had three other sons, but Yoritomo was more than just his flesh and blood.

“I thought I’d never see you again!” Yoritomo exclaimed.

“So did we,” said the old men.

Yanagisawa turned to Kato Kinhide and Ihara Eigoro, members of the Council of Elders, Japan’s supreme governing body and the shogun’s top advisers. His message had asked Yoritomo to bring them along. They’d opposed Lord Matsudaira and supported Yanagisawa during the war. They had survived the purges by latching onto Yoritomo, whose influence with the shogun protected them from Lord Matsudaira. Now they looked as amazed to see Yanagisawa as if he’d risen from the dead, and not especially pleased.

“What’s the matter?” Yanagisawa said. “I thought you’d be glad I’m back.”

“Yes, of course we are,” said Ihara. He was short and hunched, simian in appearance. “This is just such a shock.”

“How did you escape?” asked Kato, who had a broad face with leathery skin, like a mask with slits for eyes and mouth.

“Never mind that,” Yanagisawa said. “I’m here to mount a new campaign against Lord Matsudaira.” Once he got rid of Lord Matsudaira, he could inveigle his way back into the shogun’s good graces. “We need to make plans.”

Kato exchanged glances with Ihara, then said slowly, “This isn’t a good time for such a campaign.”

“Why not?” Yanagisawa said, disturbed by their lack of enthusiasm.

“The political climate has been unfavorable to you since you’ve been gone,” Ihara said.

“What’s happened to my other allies? Don’t I have any left?” Yanagisawa controlled the fear that crept through him.

“There are still officials and
daimyo
who are partial to you,” Kato said, “but Lord Matsudaira has them virtually under his thumb.”

“What about my army?”

“Remnants of it are still fighting Lord Matsudaira,” Ihara said, “but he’s captured and executed many of your troops and driven the rest underground, scattered them across the country.”

Yanagisawa heard the trickle of a water clock in the temple garden; it sounded like his hopes draining away. But he refused to be discouraged. “Well, then, I’ll just have to build a new army. If you could talk to my old allies for me, persuade them to contribute some troops…” His voice trailed off as he saw Kato and Ihara shaking their heads.

“I’m sorry,” Kato said.

“Do you mean you won’t support me?” Yanagisawa demanded.

“We can’t afford to,” Ihara said bluntly.

Rage incensed Yanagisawa. “I put you on the Council of Elders. Without me, you’d both be minor officials in some backwater province. You owe me!”

“We paid off our debts when we risked our lives for you the first time around and barely escaped death,” Ihara said.

“It’s our duty to keep the peace, not embroil the country in more war,” Kato said.

Which meant they were comfortable with the status quo; they didn’t want to trouble themselves. The old cowards! Hurt and bitter, Yanagisawa said, “What am I supposed to do?”

“Be patient,” Kato said. “Lie low for awhile.”

“Wait for a time when you’ll have a better chance of success,” Ihara said.

That time would never come. The number of Yanagisawa’s partisans would shrink as Lord Matsudaira persecuted them. The longer Yanagisawa remained absent from the political scene, the easier for people to forget him. Besides, Yoritomo was getting too old to hold the interest of the shogun, who preferred younger males. Yanagisawa would lose his chance to put Yoritomo at the head of the regime unless he made his comeback soon.

He hid his despair behind a cool, stoic expression. “Since we’ve nothing more to say, I’ll bid you good night.”

The elders bowed. Yoritomo told them, “You can start back toward Edo Castle. I’ll catch up.” After they’d left, he said, “Father, I’m sorry they disappointed you.”

His sympathy moved Yanagisawa. “It’s all right.” The elders would pay for letting him down in his time of need. “There’s more than one way for me to rise again.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Yoritomo asked.

He’d always been a loyal, devoted son, eager to please. Yanagisawa smiled, heartened by his support. “Oh, yes, indeed.” He put his arm around Yoritomo as they walked toward the gate. “Here’s what we’ll do.” He whispered in Yoritomo’s ear.

13

The medium had vanished.

“Where did she go?” Sano asked Madam Chizuru, the chief lady official of the Large Interior, the women’s quarters of Edo Castle.

“I don’t know,” Madam Chizuru said. She was in her fifties, with a masculine build and a hint of whiskers on her upper lip. “Lady Nyogo wouldn’t say.”

They stood with Detectives Marume and Fukida in the corridor of the palace that led to the Large Interior. Two sentries guarded the heavy oak door, banded with iron and decorated with carved flowers, behind which lived the shogun’s mother, wife, concubines, their attendants, and the palace’s female servants. A loud babble of their voices, like twitters from caged birds, penetrated the door.

“When did she leave?” Sano asked, disturbed that the medium had fled before he could question her.

“About an hour ago,” said Madam Chizuru.

Right after her fraudulent seance. “When do you expect her back?”

“Not soon. She took a trunk full of clothes.”

“She intends to stay gone long enough to avoid you,” Detective Marume commented to Sano.

“If I were her, I’d do the same,” said Detective Fukida.

“Did anyone go with her?” Sano asked.

“Yes,” Madam Chizuru said. “Four bearers and two porters to carry her palanquin and her trunk.” Such an unwieldy procession couldn’t travel very far very fast. Determined to find out why the medium had incriminated him, Sano said to his detectives, “Let’s catch them.”

Speeding downhill through the wet passages, they found no sign of Nyogo. They stopped at the first checkpoint, whose guards told Sano, “Her escorts hurried her through as if wolves had been chasing them.”

At the main gate, the sentries couldn’t agree on which way Lady
Nyogo
had gone. Sano and the detectives stood beneath the gate’s roof
,
while pouring rain hid Edo from their view.

“We’ll send out search parties,” Sano said. “Then we’ll go back to the scene of the crime.”

He hoped that they would find clues to implicate someone else besides Reiko, especially since the first step in his attempt to exonerate her had failed.

The Nihonbashi merchant district was deserted except for soldiers on patrol and civilian sentries at neighborhood gates. Although the rain had paused, the air was so humid that the clouded sky seemed to engulf the earth. Hirata and Detectives Inoue and Arai rode along winding streets where water dripped down the tile roofs, off balconies, and through drain spouts. Lanterns glowed weakly in a few windows, their reflections shimmering in puddles. Hirata turned a corner, and a lone pedestrian came walking toward him. The man appeared in and out of view as he passed through the lights from the windows then merged into the shadows between them. He limped on a lame right leg, leaned on a wooden staff. Hirata jumped off his horse and hurried to meet him.

“Ozuno!” he called, surprised and delighted to see his teacher. “You’re here!”

“You have a habit of stating the obvious.” The priest halted. He carried a wooden chest hung from a shoulder harness decorated with orange bobbles. He didn’t look pleased to see Hirata.

Hirata was too glad to see Ozuno to care. “This is so convenient, that you’re in town. Now we can continue my training.”

Ozuno snorted. “Training isn’t a matter of convenience. But if you’re so eager for more lessons, then come with me. We have a lot of time to make up.”

“I can’t right now,” Hirata said, abashed. “I’m in the middle of an investigation. How about tomorrow?”

Now Ozuno looked gravely disapproving. “The trouble with tomorrow is that it may never come.”

“But my master is in danger, and I have to help him.”

“You must choose between your training and your duties. I won’t waste my effort on someone who merely dabbles in the martial arts instead of dedicating his life to them.” Ozuno started to shuffle away.

“Wait!” Hirata hurried after him. “I can’t quit my training.”.

“It wouldn’t be much of a loss if you quit,” Ozuno retorted as he kept walking. “You’ve been doing so poorly that I think I made a mistake accepting you as a pupil.”

Hirata was desperate to cling to his dream of becoming a great fighter and the teacher upon whom it depended. Exercising the authority that his rank conferred upon him, he grabbed Ozuno and commanded, “I forbid you to go! I order you to come live in my house and train me when my schedule permits!”

They stood in a blur of light that filtered through a window. Ozuno’s expression was fierce. “Take your hand off me,” he said in a voice quiet yet terrible.

Through his body thundered a blast of energy. It struck Hirata. He snatched his hand away and stepped backward as Ozuno’s shield pulsated waves of power at him. His fingers smarted, as if burned.

“You would arrest your teacher, hold him captive, and force him to train you against his will?” Ozuno said, his voice now laced with incredulity. “Merciful gods, there’s no end to your pigheadedness!”

“Forgive me,” Hirata said, anxious to placate Ozuno, regretting his own behavior. “A thousand apologies!”

“A single ‘farewell’ would be more to my taste.” Ozuno stomped down the wet street.

Hirata followed, horrified by the turn of events. “Do you mean it’s over? Just like that, after three years?”

“Three years are even more precious to an old man than to a young one. I shan’t waste more of my time on you because unless you change radically, you’ll never succeed at
dim-mak.”

“Please give me another chance,” Hirata begged.

“Life is full of chances,” Ozuno said, limping faster, pounding his staff on the ground. “If by some miracle you make a major breakthrough, I’ll take up your training again.”

Hirata halted in defeat. “But where are you going?” he called to Ozuno’s receding figure. “Where will I find you?”

“Don’t worry,” Ozuno called over his shoulder as he disappeared through a neighborhood gate. “Should you ever be ready for another try, I’ll find you.”

Hirata and his men arrived in a rundown neighborhood crisscrossed by a malodorous canals. Voices quarreled inside the tenements whose thatched roofs sagged under the weight of the rain. A peasant emptied a bucket of slops into a street already mired in floodwater and sewage. Sullen men and boys loitered, smoking pipes and drinking cheap sake, on plank sidewalks above the filth. The desolate scene matched Hirata’s mood. He consoled himself with the thought that since his martial arts training had been suspended, at least he could focus on getting Sano and Reiko out of trouble.

This was where their trouble had started.

He dismounted outside the Persimmon Teahouse. A lantern within splashed light through the wet, tattered blue curtains. He and Inoue and Arai entered. The proprietor lounged glumly beside his sake jars; a man dozed, his head pillowed on a wooden drum; three women sat bickering together. When they saw Hirata’s party, they perked up.

“Welcome,” said the proprietor. “How about a drink?”

Hirata and his men accepted. The proprietor served them sake, then nudged the sleeping drummer. “Wake up! Entertain our guests.”

The women got to their feet, preparing to dance. Hirata said, “Never mind, thank you. I’ve come to talk to Lily. Is she here?”

“Lily?” The proprietor frowned. “There’s no one here by that name.”

Hirata looked at the dancers and drummer, who shook their heads. “I was told that Lily worked in this teahouse.”

“Whoever told you was mistaken.”

“She was a dancer here three months ago.”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve never had anyone called Lily,” the proprietor said.

Hirata stepped outside for a moment, looked at the insignia printed on the curtains, then said, “This is the Persimmon Teahouse, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But maybe you’re looking for another place with the same name in a different neighborhood. Maybe this woman Lily works there.”

Hirata didn’t think so. The directions he’d obtained from Reiko before leaving Edo Castle had been clear enough, and this place fit her description. Now he was disturbed that it seemed Lily didn’t exist, but not really surprised. The fact that he wasn’t surprised caused him even more distress.

All along he’d had private doubts about Reiko’s story. The idea that she’d gone to the Mori estate to look for a stolen child, then ended up naked and unconscious at the scene of Lord Mori’s murder through no fault of her own seemed far-fetched even for a woman as extraordinary as Reiko.