The Cloud Pavilion (7 page)

Sano and his entourage arrived in the street where he’d found Chiyo. The rain had stopped for the moment. The balcony that had sheltered him and his men belonged to one of several shops in a row that sold confectionaries. Lines of customers extended outside the doors. Sano worked his way down the row, asking shopkeepers if they’d seen Chiyo stumbling through the rain yesterday.

“I saw her,” said one man as he wrapped cakes. “I thought she was just a drunken whore.”

Sano retraced Chiyo’s footsteps around a corner and down another block, whose shops sold religious supplies. Two dealers had seen Chiyo; the rest hadn’t. Dividing the shops was an alley, wider than the usual narrow space that ran between buildings. It was a firebreak, designed to reduce crowding and prevent the spread of fires, and apparently used as a side street. Sano and Detectives Marume and Fukida walked down the alley, skirting puddles. Balconies overhung recessed doorways and malodorous nightsoil bins. As he examined the paving stones, Sano spotted blood that had collected in the cracks. He pictured Chiyo falling, hitting her head.

“This is where Chiyo was dumped,” Sano said.

An old woman with a tobacco pipe clamped between her teeth hobbled out on a balcony, picked up a quilt that had been left out in the rain, wrung out the soaked fabric, and cursed. Sano called up to her, “Did you see anyone come through here yesterday, during the storm?”

“An oxcart. They take a shortcut instead of going around the block.” The woman puffed on her pipe, which gave off foul smoke. “There’s just enough room for them to squeeze through, but they scrape the walls. And the oxen leave dung. Filthy beasts! I pick up the dung, save it in this bucket, and throw it at the drivers.” She cackled.

“Chiyo must have been dumped from that oxcart,” Sano said to his detectives, then asked the woman, “Did you get a look at the driver? What was the cart carrying?”

“No. I didn’t see. It was covered by a piece of cloth.”

“He hid her under the cloth so no one would see her,” Fukida said.

“But who is ‘he’?” Marume asked.

“That’s the question,” Sano said. “Let’s go find that oxcart.” He recalled the construction site they’d passed yesterday. “I know where to start.”

The Hibiya administrative district near Edo Castle was thick with samurai. They filled the streets where government officials lived and worked in mansions protected by high stone walls. Some of them wore the silk robes of high rank, some the armor tunics of soldiers; all were equipped with the customary two swords of their class. Some rode in palanquins or on horse back followed by attendants; the lowlier trudged on foot. They all moved aside to make way for Hirata.

As he rode down his cleared path through the crowd, his reputation as the top martial artist in Edo cloaked him like a golden suit of armor. Rumor said he could read minds, see behind him, anticipate an opponent’s every move, and communicate with the spirit world.

There was truth to the rumor. His training had developed mental powers that everyone had to some degree but few ever learned to exercise.

Part of his perception focused on his surroundings. It noted the faces he passed, the plod of hooves and sandals on wet streets, the rustle of straw rain capes, the bright umbrellas. The other part, honed by arcane training rituals, sensed the energy auras around each human being. In each pattern of heat and light and vibration he could read personality and emotion. Some pulsed faintly, the auras of weak wills; others flared with confidence. In battle, the aura functioned as a warrior’s first line of defense, a shield. A strong aura could deflect blows as effectively as a sword could and defeat an enemy without a single strike.

In present company, no aura was as powerful as Hirata’s.

Now Hirata perceived a configuration of arrogance and recklessness in three auras among the crowd. They belonged to three young soldiers who came riding toward him. The men jumped from their saddles and blocked his path. The tallest one had eyebrows like black slashes, an out-thrust square jaw, and the lean, muscular physique of a man who spent much time at martial arts practice, unlike many samurai. His armor tunic sported the Tokugawa crest. He swaggered up to Hirata and said, “I challenge you to a duel.”

Hirata experienced a sinking sensation. “You don’t want to do this,” he said.

“What’s the matter? Are you scared I’ll beat you?” the soldier taunted. “Come down and fight!”

This wasn’t the first time Hirata had been challenged. A reputation like his had certain disadvantages. He’d lost count of how many samurai had accosted him, eager to prove their fighting skills superior to his. So far none had succeeded. But they’d caused Hirata serious problems nonetheless.

The soldier’s companions yelled, “Coward! Loser!”

A crowd gathered around Hirata and the samurai, avid for a fight. “Well?” the soldier shouted. “Aren’t you going to defend your honor?”

“I’m going to give you a chance to save your life,” Hirata said. “Go, and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

The soldier went red with anger. “Are you saying I’m not good enough to fight you? In front of all these people?”

“I’m saying don’t be foolish.”

“I’ll make you fight me,” the soldier huffed. He looked around the audience and spied a teenaged peasant boy, a servant. “Hey, you! Come here.”

The boy looked dismayed to be drawn into the argument. The soldier’s friends grabbed him. They shoved him at the soldier, who drew his sword and said to Hirata, “If you won’t, I’ll fight this boy instead.”

Hirata was appalled at the lengths to which men would go in order to provoke him. “Wait,” he said, and jumped off his horse. He couldn’t let an innocent bystander suffer.

The spectators cheered as he strode forward. He seized the friends, twisted their arms, and flung them to the ground. They shrieked. The boy scampered off unharmed. The soldier yelled and charged at Hirata, waving his sword.

Hirata’s mind and body instinctively united in action. He drew a deep breath that aerated his entire body. His heart pumped blood and energy through his veins as a mystic trance came upon him. His perception expanded. He projected his vision into the future. It showed him ghostly images where the people would move in the next few moments. He saw the soldier coming as if in slowed motion, his ghost one step ahead of him. The ghost’s sword traced curving, shimmering lines that the real blade would soon follow. Hirata glided between the lines. The soldier’s sword whistled harmlessly around him. Hirata launched a kick at the ghost.

A split instant later, his foot struck the soldier’s stomach. The soldier howled, flying backward into the crowd, which scattered to get out of his way. He hit the side of a building. His head banged against the wall. His face went blank. He slid down the wall, leaving a red smear where his head had hit. He sagged onto the ground, his scalp bleeding profusely.

Hirata’s awareness reverted to normal. The ghostly images and energy auras faded; his breathing and pulse slowed. He found himself in the center of a silent, awestruck audience. The soldier lay crumpled, motionless. His friends rushed to him, crying, “Ibe-
san
! Are you all right?”

“He’ll wake up soon,” Hirata said with more confidence than he felt. He was good at gauging the force necessary to subdue attackers without killing them, but he hadn’t anticipated the wall meeting Ibe’s head.

“Let this be a lesson to anyone who wants to challenge me,” Hirata announced.

The crowd dispersed. As the friends of the soldier hoisted him onto his horse and led it off, along came a
doshin
Hirata knew from his police days. The
doshin
, named Kurita, was an older man with a rough, cheerful face, dressed in a short kimono and cotton leggings. In addition to his swords he wore a
jitte
—a metal wand with a hook above the hilt for catching an attacker’s blade—standard police equipment. His three assistants followed him, armed with rope for restraining criminals.

“Well, if it isn’t Hirata-
san
,” he said. “Not another duel! Haven’t you been warned about that?”

“Yes, by the shogun himself, no less.”

The shogun had heard reports of the duels and not been pleased. He abhorred violence, and he’d ordered Hirata to cease dueling and threatened him with banishment if he didn’t stop.

“We can’t have you killing and maiming Edo’s best young men, especially those from the Tokugawa army,” Kurita said.

“If Edo’s best young men would leave me alone, there’d be no problem,” Hirata said.

He rode to police headquarters, a walled compound in the southern corner of the Hibiya district. Guards let him through the ironclad gate, into a courtyard surrounded by barracks and stables. A few criminals, recently arrested, their hands bound with rope, huddled miserably under the dripping eaves, awaiting an escort to jail.

Hirata strode into the main building. The reception room was a cavernous space divided by square pillars that supported a low ceiling. Messengers crouched on the floor and smoked pipes that fouled the air. Closed skylights leaked water into buckets set on the platform where three clerks knelt at desks. The chief clerk greeted Hirata and said, “It’s been a long time.”

“Greetings, Uchida-
san
,” Hirata said.

Uchida was a middle-aged samurai with flexible, comic features. He’d held his job since Hirata had been a child, and was a trove of information about crime, criminals, and all police business in Edo.

“What can I do for you today?” Uchida asked.

“I need your help with a case I’m investigating.” Hirata explained, “Chamberlain Sano’s cousin Chiyo was kidnapped.”

“So I’ve heard.” Uchida’s mobile features drooped with concern. He lowered his voice. “Raped, wasn’t she? Poor girl. Well, I’m glad she’s home safe. I hope you catch the bastard. How can I help?”

“Her father told Chamberlain Sano that when she went missing, he reported it to the police,” Hirata began. “Have you heard about that, too?”

Uchida pulled a grimace. “Major Kumazawa stalked in here like a conquering general. He demanded that we drop everything and look for his daughter. But we couldn’t, could we? Put every man on the search and let the criminals run wild in the meantime?”

“Of course not,” Hirata agreed. “But I hope someone made an effort to find Chiyo.”

“Sure we did,” Uchida said. “A missing person is a missing person. We were duty-bound to investigate even if Major Kumazawa didn’t exactly make us eager to do it.”

If Major Kumazawa hadn’t been so high-handed, the police might have worked harder and rescued Chiyo sooner, Hirata thought. “What did the investigation turn up?”

“Nothing,” Uchida said. “Our officers in Asakusa had a look around the shrine where she disappeared, but nobody there saw anything. But I’ve got a bit of news that might be related to the crime.”

“What?” Hirata said, surprised. “Did you tell Major Kumazawa?” The man hadn’t given Sano any information from the police, as far as Hirata knew.

“I didn’t get a chance,” Uchida defended himself. “He threw a fit because we didn’t all jump at once, then he stormed out of here before I could speak.”

“Well, cough it up,” Hirata said.

Uchida paused, letting the suspense build, until prodded by a frown from Hirata. “Chamberlain Sano’s cousin isn’t the only woman to be kidnapped lately. There have been two others.”

“Is anyone following us?” Yanagisawa said.

“No, master,” said one of his two bodyguards.

They were riding along a rain-swept quay in the Hatchobori district. Their wicker hats concealed their faces; their straw capes covered the identifying crests on their garments. Yanagisawa glanced furtively over his shoulder at the watercraft moored at the quay. He didn’t see anyone except laborers hurrying goods from barges to ware houses. But this was a time for extra caution.

The other guard said, “Your precautions seem to have worked.”

After leaving Edo Castle, Yanagisawa and his guards had traveled by palanquin to the estate of a
daimyo
who was an ally. They’d borrowed horses, donned rain gear, and ridden out the back gate. They’d surely lost anyone who’d followed them from the castle. Now they turned down a street where shops, restaurants, and teahouses occupied narrow storefronts. The street was deserted except for a samurai—one of Yanagisawa’s own troops—who stood outside a teahouse distinguished by a giant conch shell hung above its entrance.

Yanagisawa’s party dismounted. The samurai opened the door. Yanagisawa and his bodyguards stepped inside, where two more of his soldiers waited in a room with a
tatami
floor and a low table for drinks, otherwise empty. They’d cleared out the proprietor and customers in advance of Yanagisawa’s arrival.

“Are they here yet?” Yanagisawa asked, shedding his wet hat and cape.

The soldiers pointed to a doorway covered with a blue curtain. As he moved toward it, Yanagisawa felt excitement speed his pulse. He was embarking upon the plan he’d outlined to his son last night. His success depended upon the people he was about to meet.

Pushing aside the curtain, he stepped into another room. On the
tatami
floor knelt two old women. Both in their sixties, they wore rich silk robes patterned in muted colors that gleamed in the gray light from the barred window. Their faces were made up with white rice powder and red rouge, their hair upswept and anchored with lacquer combs. They both looked out of place in these humble surroundings. Otherwise, they could not have been more different.

The younger woman boldly spoke first. “You have kept us waiting for more than an hour.” Her speech was crisp, precise, high-class. She had an emaciated figure on which her rich garments hung like cloth on sticks. Her face was narrow, with elegant bone structure, but the right side was distorted, its muscles bunched together, the eye half closed, as if in pain.

“It was best that we not arrive at the same time and be seen together,” Yanagisawa explained.

“Still, you took far too long getting here, Honorable—”

Yanagisawa raised his hand. “We’ll not use our real titles or names,” he said, kneeling opposite the women. “You can call me ‘Ogata.’ I’ll call you ‘Lady Setsu.’ ”

“Surely such theatrics are not necessary here.” She swept a disdainful gaze around the shabby room, the window that gave a view of an empty alley in a neighborhood where no one they knew ever came.

“There are spies everywhere,” Yanagisawa said, “as you well know.”

“Lady Setsu” nodded, conceding his point. Her right eye leaked involuntary tears.

“Me, what about me?” the elder woman piped up. She had a babyish voice and a doughy face that reminded Yanagisawa of a rice cake dusted with powdered sugar. “What shall I be called?” She giggled. “I’ve always liked the name ‘Chocho.’ ”

Butterfly
, Yanagisawa thought.
How inappropriate for such an old, fat woman
. “ ‘Lady Chocho’ you shall be,” he said, putting on his most gallant, charming manner. “It’s most suitable. You are as pretty and graceful as your namesake.”

Lady Chocho preened, delighted by his flattery. Yanagisawa smiled. He’d already won an ally. But her companion frowned.

“It was quite inconvenient and uncomfortable to travel so far in such bad weather,” Lady Setsu said, “particularly since my health is poor, as you well know.”

Yanagisawa knew she suffered from terrible headaches that caused spasms in her face. “Yes, I do know, and I apologize for bringing you all the way out here,” he said contritely.

Lady Chocho had borne the fruit that was key to his plan, whose acquisition was the object of this meeting. But Lady Setsu had a say in the matter, too.

“I didn’t mind coming,” Lady Chocho said, beholding Yanagisawa with the admiration that he often excited in both women and men.

Lady Setsu shot her a glance. Lady Chocho quailed and bowed her head. Lady Setsu had much influence over her friend, Yanagisawa knew from his informants.

“Why did you choose such a squalid dump?” Lady Setsu brushed at her sleeves as if afraid of fleas.

“Because it has no connection to us, and we’ll never use it again,” Yanagisawa said. “Those are my favorite criteria for places to hold secret meetings.”

“Very well. I suppose you have a good reason for summoning us?” Lady Setsu’s voice hinted that it had better be good. Even though he was the shogun’s second-in-command, her age, her pedigree, and the irritability caused by her pain made her insolent.

“Yes,” Yanagisawa said. “I’ve a proposal to make.”

Suspicion narrowed her good eye. “What sort of proposal?”

“For a collaboration that would benefit us both.”

Lady Setsu permitted herself a thin, bad-humored smile, which only appeared on the side of her face not distorted by the headache. “What can you offer that would induce us to collaborate with
you
?”

She pronounced the last word as if she thought him a demon incarnate, which she probably did. Yanagisawa didn’t mind. He would rather be feared and reviled than discounted.

“I can offer you a chance at what you most want in the world,” he said.

Lady Chocho tugged Lady Setsu’s sleeve. “What’s he talking about?”

“Quiet,” Lady Setsu ordered. To Yanagisawa she said, “Why do you think that we want for anything? We’re quite comfortably situated.”

“That could change.” Yanagisawa paused to let her absorb the ominous impact of his words. “The shogun’s health is uncertain.”

Lady Setsu regarded him suspiciously. “His Excellency was well enough to attend the martial arts tournament yesterday.”

She was well informed, Yanagisawa observed. “Just last month he was wretchedly ill. You must be aware that he grows feebler with every passing year.”

“Well, yes. But he often fancies himself ill when he isn’t really.”

“Still, he’s an old man. He’s expected to die sooner rather than later.”

Lady Setsu hastened to say, “He’s been threatening to die for ages.” Just as Yanagisawa had hoped, the prospect of the shogun’s passing deeply worried her. “He hasn’t yet.”

“Nobody lives forever,” Yanagisawa pointed out. “And when he does die, the regime will change hands. The new dictator will have little use for people close to the past shogun.” In case she missed his hint, he added, “People such as you.”

Fear flashed across her expression. Yanagisawa knew he had her in his grasp now. “People such as yourself,” she retorted.

“True,” Yanagisawa said. “I’d like to know that when the dictatorship does change hands, I’ll be safe. Wouldn’t you?”

Lady Setsu said grudgingly, “I see your point.”

“I don’t,” Lady Chocho said, pouting because they’d left her out of their discussion.

Yanagisawa turned to her with his most charming smile. “My point is that we have so much in common that we’re destined to be great friends.”

“Oh, I’d like that.” Lady Chocho simpered.

Lady Setsu flicked a tolerant glance at her companion, then said to Yanagisawa, “What is your proposal?”

He hid his glee that he’d coaxed her this far. He must exercise caution. “The first step would involve a wedding.”

“I love weddings!” Lady Chocho clapped her hands in delight. “Who’s getting married?”

Comprehension dawned on Lady Setsu’s face. “Your nerve is astounding. You take my breath away.”

“He takes mine away, too,” Lady Chocho said with a giggle.

“So you don’t like my plan?” Yanagisawa prepared to argue, cajole, and eventually convince.

“I didn’t say that.” Lady Setsu’s manner expressed reluctant admiration for his ingenuity. “But you realize there are serious obstacles.”

“None that I can’t get around.”

Her painted eyebrows rose in surprise; she shook her head. “I always knew you were ruthless, but until this moment I didn’t realize how much so.”

“Well, what do you think?” Yanagisawa said. “Shall we be partners?”

“I say yes,” Lady Chocho said, ready to join him in anything he proposed whether she understood it or not.

But Lady Setsu said, “I refuse to make a major decision in such a hurry. There are other people whose future is at stake.”

“Of course,” Yanagisawa said. “I didn’t mean to imply that the interests of all parties wouldn’t be taken into account. Forgive me if I gave you that impression. I was about to suggest that everyone involved should meet and have a chance to approve of the plan.”

For a moment Lady Setsu beheld him with silent outrage that he would forsake all sense of propriety and ask her to be his accomplice. But they both knew how much she dreaded the future, the unknown. Better to ally herself with a demon who was familiar than to depend on the whim of strangers.

“I will take the next step, but that is all I will commit to now,” she said.

“Good enough,” Yanagisawa said. “Shall we have a drink?”

“Oh, yes,” Lady Chocho said.

Yanagisawa poured cups of sake from a decanter on the table. Lady Setsu covertly removed a vial from her sleeve and dosed her sake with opium potion. Yanagisawa said, “Here’s to our joining forces in the near future.”

“I can’t wait,” Lady Chocho said, batting her eyes at Yanagisawa.

“We’ll see about that,” Lady Setsu said.

They drank and bowed. The women left the teahouse first. Then Yanagisawa and his men took their leave. As they rode home in the rain, he congratulated himself on a mission almost accomplished.

In the alley outside the teahouse, beneath the window of the room where Yanagisawa had met the two women, a pile of trash stirred. Broken planks shifted; an old bucket foul with rotten fish entrails rolled free as a man dressed in beggar’s rags emerged. Toda Ikkyu stood and flexed his cramped muscles. He’d overheard everything Yanagisawa and the women had said. The paper panel that covered the window had blocked out sights but not sound. Now Toda had interesting news to report to Chamberlain Sano—or not.