The Ronin's Mistress (30 page)

*   *   *

HIRATA RETURNED TO
Edo Castle at dusk. He’d spent the afternoon hunting for Tahara, Deguchi the priest, and the soldier named Kitano Shigemasa. His sources had told him that Tahara had a house in the Kanda district. Hirata had gone there and spoken to a servant, who’d said that Tahara was out. Next, Hirata had ridden to Ueno Temple. Deguchi wasn’t there; he was ostensibly begging alms in the city. But a monk told Hirata that Deguchi’s friend Kitano was a retainer to Lord Satake. Hirata went to Lord Satake’s estate, where no one would tell him anything about Kitano. By then Hirata was thoroughly frustrated. As he rode up through the walled passages inside the castle, he felt guilty because he should have spent more time investigating the attack on Magistrate Ueda.

“I hear you’ve been looking for us,” someone behind him said.

The voice was a blend of smoothness and roughness, instantly familiar. At the same time, Hirata felt the aura strike him like a series of thunderbolts. Hirata froze in his saddle. He clamped his will down on the terror that leaped in him because Tahara had said “us,” not “me.”

All three of them were here.

Hirata forced himself to turn nonchalantly. He saw, bracketed by the high stone walls, Tahara and another samurai on horseback and a priest in a hemp cloak and saffron robes standing between them. The cold, drafty passage was empty of other people. Lanterns in the corridors atop the walls cast a dim, flickering glow on the men. Tahara smiled; his eyes twinkled in his handsome, rakish face. Hirata took his first good look at his other stalkers.

“Kitano-
san,
” Hirata said.

The soldier bowed; he removed his iron helmet. He was older than his robust figure had led Hirata to believe—in his fifties. The hair in his topknot was streaked with gray. His skin was a mesh of scars. His eyes crinkled, but the rest of his face remained immobile. The cuts that had made the scars must have damaged his facial nerves.

“Deguchi-
san,
” Hirata said.

At first the priest seemed a mere youth. His long, oval face and shaved head had a smooth complexion untouched by life. He wasn’t handsome—his eyes were too heavily lidded, his nose too flat, and his mouth too pursed—but he had a strange, radiant beauty. Then Hirata noticed the whisker stubble on Deguchi’s cheeks and the tough sinews in his neck. Deguchi could be any age between twenty and forty. He didn’t speak; he only bowed.

“How does it feel to be the hunted instead of the hunter for a change?” Hirata asked.

“Don’t be so sure our positions are reversed,” Tahara said with pleasant humor.

Anger made Hirata belligerent. “I know who the three of you are and where you live.”

“All that from the one clue that Tahara gave you, his name.” Kitano’s genial voice had a coarse provincial accent. “You’ve lived up to your reputation as a good detective.”

Deguchi the priest said nothing. He just watched.

“Apparently you’ve decided that the right time to talk has finally come,” Hirata said.

“Yes.” Tahara looked behind him. Patrol guards approached. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

All his instincts told Hirata not to go with the men. Two years’ worth of curiosity wouldn’t let him refuse. He accompanied Tahara, Deguchi, and Kitano to the castle’s herb garden, where the shogun’s apothecaries grew medicinal plants. The garden was deserted, its plots covered with snow tinted mauve by the setting sun. Beyond it loomed the forest preserve. As he jumped off his horse, Hirata tried to quell the hum of anxiety that sped along his nerves. He tried not to show his terror as he faced his adversaries.

Was this the showdown he’d been dreading?

Would he die here, tonight?

He hadn’t said good-bye to his wife, his children, or Sano.

Would he fail to honor his promise to take care of Sano’s family?

Tahara and Kitano dismounted. The soldier and priest flanked Tahara, who was clearly their leader. But Hirata knew that the other two men had powers nearly as great as Tahara’s—and greater than his own. He gave in to his urge to delay the battle for as long as possible.

“Whose aura is it that I’ve been feeling?” he asked.

“It’s a triad made up of all of ours,” Tahara said.

Hirata was disturbed to learn that all three men had been present whenever he’d seen or thought it was only one. All of them had been stalking him, as a team. Even worse, Hirata sensed that the sum of their power was not greater than its parts. Each third was still many times greater than his own.

“Ozuno is dead,” Hirata said. “Did you know?”

The men’s gazes intensified, their only acknowledgment of the fact that he’d discovered that they were all disciples of the same teacher.

“Yes,” Tahara said. Emotion veiled the twinkle in his eye.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want us to be the messengers of bad news,” Tahara said. “I thought it wouldn’t make you feel very friendly toward us.”

“You want me to feel friendly toward you?” Hirata laughed in disbelief. “What do you want with me? To fight?”

“Oh, good heavens, no,” Tahara said. Deguchi and Kitano shook their heads in disdain. “We’re not like those fools who want to beat you and call themselves the top fighter in Japan.” He spread his arms, as if to embrace his two friends and Hirata. “Here we have the greatest collection of martial artists the world ever saw. If we fought, some or all of us would be killed. What a stupid, boring waste of talent!”

For two years Hirata had been bracing himself for the fight of his life, and now it wasn’t going to happen. His shameful relief quickly gave way to suspicion. “Then what do you want?”

“We want you to join us,” Tahara said.

Confused, Hirata said, “Join you, in what?”

“In our secret society,” Tahara said.

Never had Hirata imagined that this was the purpose behind the stalking, the poem on the bush, the birds, or the fire at the street show. “What kind of secret society? Who’s in it?”

“Just us,” Kitano said, “and you, if you decide to join.”

“We four are Ozuno’s most accomplished disciples,” Tahara said. “We’ve gone further with the mystic martial arts than anyone else ever has. My friends and I aren’t concerned with fighting anymore. It’s time to put our training to better use.”

Hirata had thought that fighting was a samurai’s ultimate purpose in life, the reason for their training. “What better use is there?”

“We want to influence the course of fate,” Tahara said, making the proclamation sound at once grand and simple.

That didn’t enlighten Hirata. “You mean, start a war and make sure your side wins?”

Tahara shook his head impatiently. “I told you this isn’t about fighting.”

“Then how do you think you’re going to influence the course of fate?”

“We’ll work behind the scenes,” Tahara said. “We’ll manipulate things, people, and events. Our actions will be small and unobtrusive, but they will transform the world.”

Hirata had heard many tales about the feats performed by mystic martial artists. They could defeat armies without striking a single blow; they could cause earthquakes. Most of the tales were exaggerations, but some were true; some of the feats Hirata could perform himself. But he’d never heard anything like this.

“I can see that you don’t believe me,” Tahara said.

“You’re right, I don’t,” Hirata said. “How are you supposed to know what actions to take or what they’ll accomplish?”

“By conducting magic rituals,” Tahara said.

The society was sounding more preposterous by the moment. “Ozuno never taught me any magic rituals of that kind.”

“But he knew them,” Kitano said.

Hirata was dismayed by the idea that his teacher had withheld important information from him but not these other disciples. “And he taught the three of you?”

A glance passed between them. “After he died, we found an ancient, secret martial arts text among his things,” Tahara said. “It contains instructions for the magic rituals. It was his legacy to us.”

They were hiding something, Hirata knew. But he began to believe that they were telling the truth about the magic rituals, that they could indeed influence fate. They didn’t seem foolish or deluded or crazy. And Hirata knew that the cosmos encompassed more and greater things than humans could imagine. He felt a thrill of excitement. Every serious martial artist wanted to expand his skills, to go beyond what seemed possible. Could this be Hirata’s chance to attain powers normally reserved for gods? But he held on to his skepticism and distrust.

“Show me a magic ritual,” he said.

“You have to agree to join our society first,” Tahara said.

“How do I join?”

“You have to take an oath of loyalty to the society,” Kitano said. “You swear that it is your top priority, that you will never reveal its business to anyone outside, and that you will abide by all its decisions.”

That was an obvious conflict with Hirata’s other loyalties. “Sorry.” Although Hirata felt a twinge of regret, he spoke without hesitation. He started to back away.

“Wait,” Tahara said.

Hirata heard an urgent note in the man’s voice. He paused, surprised that Tahara had dropped his air of mocking superiority. It was obvious how badly Tahara and the others wanted Hirata to join them. Hirata could smell their fear that he would slip from their grasp.

“I can’t reveal our secrets,” Tahara said, “but I can demonstrate what we do.” He held up his finger, looked around, then walked toward the wall that separated the herb garden from the forest preserve.

Hirata and the other men followed. Tahara picked up a branch that had fallen from a tree. It was as long as his arm, almost as thick, covered with black bark, and straight except for a kink near one end. A thinner branch studded with twigs protruded from the kink. Tahara broke off the thinner branch. He held up the stick for Hirata to examine. “Memorize this.”

Hirata did, but he was puzzled; the branch seemed so ordinary.

Tahara drew back his arm and threw the branch. The branch flew high and fast into the sky. It made a whizzing sound as it soared over the castle’s rooftops and disappeared into the darkness. Hirata had to strain his ears to hear it land, with a harmless plop, somewhere near the palace.

He turned to look at the three men. “Is that all?”

Tahara nodded.

“Now what?”

“Now you wait and see what happens.”

28

THE GATE OF
Edo Castle discharged a horde of officials on horseback and in palanquins, escorted by troops and servants. Among the horde were the supreme court judges. Inspector General Nakae, riding on a brown mare, led his colleagues, who were also mounted, except for old Minister Motoori in his palanquin.

Someone called, “There goes the supreme court! Hey, when are you going to condemn those forty-seven
r
ō
nin
criminals to death?”

Nakae saw traffic slow down as people turned to look at the judges and hear his response. Cries went up along the promenade, from the itinerant peddlers, beggars, and other commoners who always loitered outside the castle. “The supreme court? Where?” “They’re not criminals, they’re heroes! They ought to be pardoned!”

The commoners stampeded toward the officials, squeezed them together, and brought traffic to a halt. Eager, frantic faces bobbed below Nakae and the other mounted samurai. Voices shouted, “Pardon!” “Condemn!” Nakae felt Minister Motoori’s palanquin slam his left shoulder as the pressure increased. On his right side, someone else’s horse was jammed against his. Nakae felt a stab of panic.

“Chase those people away before we get hurt!” he called to his troops.

The troops urged their horses toward the crowd, shouting, “Move back!”

The crowd pushed harder even though people within it screamed in fright. Nakae saw a beggar go down, trampled. A woman frantically lifted her baby above the packed bodies that surged toward the judges.

“Stop!” Nakae yelled.

Minister Motoori screamed as his palanquin swayed and its bearers struggled to hold it up. Troops and crowd began fighting. The supreme court was caught in the middle of the riot.

*   *   *

IN THE EARLY
evening, Sano returned to Magistrate Ueda’s house. He found Reiko sitting at her father’s bedside. The doctor was checking the pulses at various points on Magistrate Ueda, who was still unconscious.

“Has there been any improvement?” Sano asked.

“He came to for a few moments this morning,” Reiko said, her face drawn, her eyes underscored by dark shadows.

“What are his prospects?” Sano asked the doctor.

“It’s hard to say. There may be bleeding inside his skull. His brain may be permanently damaged. If he doesn’t revive within the next day or so…”

Reiko’s eyes welled. Sano patted her hand, wishing he could offer more comfort.

“You should go home to your children and rest,” the doctor told Reiko.

Sano agreed. “You’ll notify us if there’s any change?”

“Of course,” the doctor said.

Reiko touched Magistrate Ueda’s arm, said, “I’ll be back tomorrow, Father,” and let Sano lead her out of the room.

On the way back to Edo Castle, Sano rode alongside her palanquin through the cold streets where lights burned at gates and smoke veiled the moon. Detectives Marume and Fukida and his troops followed. Sano asked, “Has there been any progress toward finding the attacker?”

“I don’t know,” Reiko said. “Hirata-
san
never came back.”

Sano was surprised because he hadn’t heard from Hirata, either.

“Have you learned anything?” Reiko asked.

Sano told her his theory that the attack on her father was connected to the forty-seven
r
ō
nin
case. “The supreme court judges claim they’re innocent. Yanagisawa says he is, too.” Yanagisawa’s accusations had left a festering cut inside Sano. He was ashamed to tell Reiko what Yanagisawa had said, afraid that it was true. “I checked with my spies. There’s no sign that Yanagisawa ordered the attack on your father, although he’s still my favorite suspect.”