The Cloud Pavilion (22 page)

Hirata gazed at the contracts, disturbed because he’d hoped to bring Sano more than the expected denials from this suspect, and to make up for the fact that his men had lost the oxcart drivers.

“That’s more money than you’ll see in your lifetime,” Ogita said crassly, mistaking Hirata’s somber expression for envy. He lowered his voice. “I’m going to offer you a deal. You leave me out of your investigation, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Hirata stared in disbelief. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

“Let’s just call it a little private business arrangement.” Ogita smiled. Nobody had offered Hirata a bribe since his police days. His longtime reputation for incorruptibility, and Sano’s, were well known. “Forget it,” Hirata said. “You can’t stop me from investigating you by paying me off.”

“Suit yourself.” Ogita’s smile persisted, but turned as menacing as a mouth carved in an armor face guard. “If you don’t like that deal, then how about this one?

“Three of Chamberlain Sano’s biggest allies owe me a lot of money. If you cause me any trouble, I’ll call in their debts. They’ll be ruined financially, and I’ll make sure they know you’re to blame. Think about where that will leave Chamberlain Sano.”

The allies would surely withdraw their support from Sano. They would also try to influence the shogun to throw him out of the regime, and they would look for another leader.

Who would that be but Yanagisawa?

If three major allies defected from Sano, the balance of power would tip in Yanagisawa’s favor, which could give Yanagisawa the impetus to resume his campaign to destroy Sano. Hirata faced a serious dilemma.

“Well?” Ogita said.

In his mind Hirata heard Sano’s voice:
I won’t give in to blackmail. If I lose my allies and Yanagisawa makes his move, so be it. I’ll take the risk for the sake of justice.
Hirata admired Sano for his principles, but his own principles were different in this case. As Sano’s chief retainer, Hirata was duty-bound to protect Sano even if it meant going against his wishes. He couldn’t allow Ogita to make good on his threat.

As he vacillated, another thought confused the issue: Maybe Ogita wasn’t responsible for the kidnappings or rapes. If so, Hirata would have put his master in jeopardy for nothing.

Hirata never knew what he would have said. Just then, the menacing pulse of energy vibrated through the air, striking him dumb. His whole body snapped to sudden, fearful attention. As his nerves began that ominous tingling and his blood raced, he forgot Ogita. His enemy was close at hand. Ears pricked and nostrils flared to catch the man’s scent, Hirata silently vowed that this time he would find his enemy; this time they would fight, and he would win.

The pulse emanated from the teahouse’s back room. Drawing his sword, Hirata advanced toward the curtained doorway.

“What are you doing?” Ogita said, puzzled.

Detective Arai said, “Hirata-
san
?”

Ignoring them, Hirata yanked the curtain aside. Beyond the doorway was a spacious room for parties. Two maids were rolling fresh
tatami
mats onto the floor. The pulse drew Hirata to another doorway. Ogita and the detectives followed.

“Is something wrong?” Detective Inoue said.

Hirata shushed him with a gesture of his hand. He peeked through the second curtain and saw a large, dim storeroom. Sake barrels were stacked in rows. Three servants unloaded more barrels from a handcart. Hirata slowly put one foot after another into the room. Screeches and howls resounded from other dimensions that impinged on his mind.

A bright flare of energy erupted from behind a row of barrels. Hirata lunged around them toward the energy. The servants yelled in fright, running for cover. Ogita cried, “Have you gone mad?”

Hirata slashed his sword at the place where he thought his enemy was hiding. But there was no one. His sword cut through a sake barrel. Pungent liquor spilled. Sensing the presence behind him, Hirata whirled, charged, and slashed. His blade cleaved more barrels. The space between the rows was vacant.

“Don’t just stand there,” Ogita said to the detectives. “Stop him before he wrecks my place!”

The detectives grabbed Hirata, but he threw them off. He kept attacking empty air. He didn’t know whether he imagined feeling the energy or his foe had projected it toward him, a trick that only the most expert martial artists could manage.

Now the presence seemed to move outside the teahouse. Hirata rushed through the back door, into a yard where fireproof store houses with iron roofs stood. The daylight on their whitewashed walls struck his eyes. Blinded and reckless, he followed the pulsating energy down a path between the store houses. At the end of the path, cornered by a bamboo fence, stood a dark figure holding a sword.

Anticipation and a thirst for blood raged within Hirata. He rushed forward and swung his sword with all his strength.

His blade cut flesh and bone. A scream of agony pierced his ears, drowned out the noise in his mind. The pulsation stopped. The blindness and rage cleared from his vision. Triumphant and panting, Hirata sheathed his sword and looked down at the man he’d killed.

Crumpled on the earth lay a peasant boy not more than thirteen years old. His body was cut clean through across the middle. Viscera and blood pooled around him and a broom he’d dropped. His babyish face was frozen in an expression of terror.

Ogita and the detectives ran up behind Hirata. As they all stared at the carnage, Ogita exclaimed, “You killed my servant!”

It hadn’t been his enemy he’d cornered, Hirata realized too late. It had been an innocent bystander. The sword Hirata had thought he’d seen was only the broom the boy had been holding.

“No!” Hirata cried. He knelt by the boy, patted his cheeks, and rubbed his hands in a frantic effort to revive him. But it was no use; not even a mystic martial arts expert could bring the dead boy back to life.

Hirata felt the pulse of his foe’s energy, fading into the distance, like a taunt.

“You won’t get away with this,” Ogita said, loud with fury. “Even if you are the shogun’s investigator, you’ll pay!”

The detectives pulled Hirata to his feet, away from the dead boy. Inoue said, “Come on, Hirata-
san
, we’d better go.”

As they led him out of the yard, Hirata realized that his troubles had just gone from bad to much worse. And that was exactly what his enemy had intended.

Across the Ry
goku Bridge from Edo proper, along the Sumida River, spread the city’s largest entertainment district. Buildings on either side of a broad, open space housed plays, freak shows, music, wild animal exhibits, and every imaginable sort of diversion. Vendors sold noodles, dumplings, and sweets at food-stalls. Adults stood under eaves and awnings, waiting for the rain to stop, but youngsters roamed, heedless of the weather. Children who worked in the district ran about on errands. Sons and daughters of merchants mingled with beggar children and a few samurai youths in a circle around a man juggling umbrellas.

Masahiro, dressed in the garden boy’s kimono and hat, blended right in with the other children.

He was excited because he’d never been here alone. He would have liked to visit the arrow-shooting booth, but instead he watched Yanagisawa and Yoritomo.

They stood near the storytellers’ hall, a building plastered with signs that advertised the stories scheduled to be told today. The wall by the entrance was studded with pegs for hanging up the patrons’ shoes. Families queued up outside, at a booth where a man sold admissions.

Masahiro was glad that Yanagisawa and Yoritomo had traveled on foot from Edo Castle; otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to keep up with them. They were dressed as troops from their own army, but Masahiro had recognized them and stayed on their trail. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was Toda Ikkyu, who must be around somewhere. Masahiro didn’t want to be caught again. He’d stayed far, far behind Yanagisawa and Yoritomo, trying to spot Toda, the better to avoid him. But Masahiro hadn’t found Toda yet. And he had the strange feeling that even if he came face-to-face with Toda, he wouldn’t recognize the man. He couldn’t remember what Toda looked like.

Here came a palanquin. The bearers were the same ones Masahiro had seen bring the three ladies to the riverbank. Edging closer to Yanagisawa and Yoritomo, he waited eagerly to see what would happen.

Yanagisawa and Yoritomo watched the bearers set down the palanquin outside the storytellers’ hall. Yanagisawa glanced at his son’s rigid, morose face and said, “Cheer up. In a moment you’ll be engaged.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Yoritomo said.

Lady Setsu stepped out of the palanquin. She was alone. Yanagisawa knew immediately that something was wrong. She pretended not to see him. She and one of her escorts walked to the booth outside the hall. He paid her admission. She disappeared inside the building.

“Stay here,” Yanagisawa told Yoritomo. He hurried after Lady Setsu.

Masahiro tried to figure out what to do. He had to go hear what Yanagisawa and the old lady said to each other, but he might run smack into Toda. Then what?

A peasant family with five children gathered at the booth. Masahiro joined them, hoping he looked like he belonged with them. He fingered a coin in the pouch that hung from a string at his waist. Samurai weren’t supposed to carry money—they considered it disgraceful—but after he’d been kidnapped two autumns ago, Masahiro had learned to be prepared for emergencies.

A man cut in front of the family. Masahiro was annoyed, but he didn’t say anything; he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Neither did the family speak up. The man wore the kind of fancy hat and clothes that Masahiro had seen on rich merchants, and he acted like somebody important. As he handed over his money, his sleeve rode up his arm. He had a large, brown, irregularly shaped freckle on the top of his wrist.

Masahiro frowned. Where had he seen that freckle before? He suddenly remembered. When Toda Ikkyu had grabbed him, while he’d struggled to break loose, he’d seen the mark on Toda’s wrist. He’d forgotten about it . . . until now.

The man was Toda.

Inside the storytellers’ hall, an old man on the stage recited the tale of the Battle of Sekigahara. He pantomimed mounted warriors swinging swords. He performed sound effects—the whinnying horses, the guns and cannons booming. The audience seated on the floor laughed and applauded.

Yanagisawa located Lady Setsu, knelt beside her, and asked, “Where is Lady Chocho? Where is Tsuruhime?”

Lady Setsu’s face wore her usual sour, pained expression. The distortion on the right side was worse today, the muscles drawn tight. “They had other business.”

Her excuse was unconvincing in the extreme. Yanagisawa said, “What other business could be more important than settling our future?”

A man sat down near Lady Setsu. He looked like a merchant. A peasant couple with six children came in and filled up the space beside Yanagisawa. It didn’t matter if these nobodies overheard his conversation with Lady Setsu.

“Settling our future is what I have come to discuss with you,” she said. “We need not involve Chocho or Tsuruhime.”

Yanagisawa felt a portentous, sinking feeling in his stomach. “You’ve made your decision, then?”

“I have,” Lady Setsu said. “I regret to inform you that we cannot accept your proposal.”

Had the outcome been different, she’d have brought Lady Chocho and Tsuruhime, to negotiate the terms of the marriage and plan the wedding. Although she’d expressed doubts the last time they’d met, Yanagisawa was shocked nonetheless.

On the stage, the storyteller howled as he acted out the part of a fallen warrior stabbed through the heart.

Yanagisawa had always believed he could get whatever he wanted. Hadn’t he risen from obscurity to become the shogun’s second-in-command? Hadn’t he survived defeat by Lord Matsudaira and exile to Hachijo Island, then returned as if from the dead? Now he felt as if he’d been climbing a mountain path and Lady Setsu had dropped a boulder from a cliff and blocked his way to the top.

The audience cheered, as if mocking his distress.

“Why not?” Yanagisawa demanded. “Why are you refusing?”

Lady Setsu looked down her dainty nose at his belligerence. “You know the reasons, even though you seem determined to ignore them. Chief among them is the fact that Tsuruhime is not free to enter upon this marriage. She is bound by a previous commitment, as you are certainly aware.”

“That’s a minor problem.” Yanagisawa had to change Lady Setsu’s mind. There was no use going to Lady Chocho. Lady Setsu had given him the impression that she and Lady Chocho had made the decision together, but of course they hadn’t. She was in control. She was the one Yanagisawa needed to convince. “I can obtain a divorce for Tsuruhime.”

Lady Setsu raised her left eyebrow in surprise at his audacity. Her right eyebrow was bunched in a spasm. “People will object.”

“The fact that Tsuruhime is childless is a point in favor of a divorce. Would you like to wager that she’ll be single by tomorrow?”

“I would wager that you would fly in the face of propriety and break every rule in order to have what you want.” Offense wrinkled Lady Setsu’s nose, as if she smelled something bad. “But you won’t get away with it.”

“Yes, I will.” Yanagisawa would twist every arm necessary, call in every favor, move heaven and earth.

“Even if you do, a divorce won’t remove all my misgivings,” Lady Setsu retorted. “It won’t change the fact that a marriage between Tsuruhime and Yoritomo would be tantamount to incest.”

“Why? They’re only distant relatives. People who are first cousins marry all the time.”

“You know what I mean even if you pretend you don’t,” Lady Setsu said. “Considering who she is, and who he is—” Her emaciated body shuddered. “The more I think about it, the very idea of them together grows more repugnant.”

Many might agree, but Yanagisawa said, “This is no time for squeamishness.” He was losing his patience, his disappointment turning to anger. “All our lives are at stake. If we don’t make this match, the troubles you’ll have in the future will make incest seem like a blessing from the gods.”

“ ‘Squeamishness’? Is that what you call my objection to such a vile, sinful disgrace?” Lady Setsu matched his anger with her own. “I call it honor, respect for tradition, and common decency. All of which you are completely lacking. And that brings me to the last reason why I reject your proposal. I don’t trust you to do right by Tsuruhime, Lady Chocho, or myself. You are not a man to uphold his end of the bargain, should it become inconvenient. You would just as soon throw us to the wolves.”

She rose. “We have nothing more to say to each other. My decision is final.”

On the stage, the storyteller described and pantomimed the rite in which triumphant soldiers paraded the severed heads of their enemies to their lord. The audience cheered. The children beside Yanagisawa laughed. As Lady Setsu walked out of the room, he felt a rage so cataclysmic he could barely restrain himself from drawing his sword, running after her, and cutting her down the middle of her thin, self-righteous back.

When he left the storytellers’ hall, Yoritomo was waiting for him. “Father, what happened?”

How could he tell his son that his plans had come to nothing? How could he bear to let Yoritomo down? Hands clenched into fists, jaw tight, Yanagisawa stood helpless and frustrated as he watched Lady Setsu ride off in her palanquin.

“You’ll be sorry you disappointed me,” he said as she disappeared. “I swear on my life, you’ll be sorry.”

Masahiro followed Yanagisawa, Yoritomo, and Toda back to Edo Castle. He watched them walk in the gate, then waited until they were safely inside. What a relief they hadn’t noticed him! But he dreaded going home. He would be punished for sure.

Hayashi, the soldier who’d been supposed to guard him, rushed out the castle gate, looking desperate. Although he was afraid of what would happen when Hayashi saw him, Masahiro took pity on the man.

“Hayashi-
san
,” he called.

“Young master!” Hayashi staggered with relief. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Thank the gods you’re safe!” He hustled Masahiro past the sentries, who nodded and waved them through the gate. As they hurried along the passages, he said, “Where on earth have you been?”

“The Ry
goku entertainment district,” Masahiro said.

“You went all the way there by yourself?” Hayashi looked stunned, then forlorn. “I’ve been going crazy looking all over the castle for you. When your father finds out that you escaped during my watch, he’ll kill me!”

Hayashi wasn’t the only one Father would kill. Masahiro wondered how long he had to live. “Does anyone else know I’ve been gone?”

“No. I wanted to see if I could find you by myself first.” Hayashi had obviously hoped to stay out of trouble. “And your parents aren’t home yet.”

“Then let’s not tell anybody what happened.”

“All right,” Hayashi said, wiping sweat off his forehead. “It’ll be our secret. Pull that hat over your face. I’ll sneak you into your father’s estate.” He added grimly, “I hope your little trip was worthwhile, because the next one will be over my dead body.”

But it hadn’t been worthwhile, Masahiro thought unhappily. Although he’d heard everything that Yanagisawa and the old lady had said, he hadn’t understood what it meant.

Father and Mother were right.

He was too young to be a detective.