The Harsh Cry of the Heron (54 page)

Kaede hugged her,
gave her a new cloak with a hood in the latest fashion and a horse from the
stables, a mare that Shizuka had often ridden before. It was easier to obtain a
horse than a travelling companion: she found herself missing Kondo Kiichi, who
would have been perfect for such a journey, with his fighting skills and his
loyalty; she regretted his death and, since he had no children, took it on
herself to remember his spirit and pray for him.

There was no need for
secrecy or disguise, yet her upbringing had made her cautious, and she refused
Kaede’s offer of an escort of Otori warriors. In the end she selected the man,
Bunta, who many years before had been her informant in Maruyama. He had worked
as a groom for Lady Maruyama Naomi, had been in Inuyama at the time of her
death and had stayed there during the war. He had therefore escaped Takeo’s
purge of the Maruyama Tribe families, though he had lost relatives there. After
the war and the earthquake he had found his way to Hagi, and had been in the
service of the Otori ever since. He was a few years younger than she was, from
the Imai family, on the surface taciturn and obedient, yet possessing some
unusual skills, an adept pickpocket, a laconic storyteller who had the knack of
extracting information, and an expert in street wrestling and bare-hand
fighting who drank with the most hardened carousers yet never lost his head.
Their shared past had created a bond between them, and she felt she could trust
him.

Throughout the winter
he had brought her snippets of information, and as soon as the snows melted had
gone at her request to Yamagata to find out, as he put it, which way the wind
blew. The news he brought back was disturbing: Taku had not returned to Inuyama
but was still in Hofu; Zenko was deeply involved with the Kikuta and considered
himself the Master of the Muto family; the family itself was divided. These
were the matters she had discussed with Takeo before his departure, but they
had come to no decisions. The birth of his son, his preparations for the
journey to Miyako had taken up all Takeo’s attention. Now she felt obliged to
act herself: to do all she could to keep the Muto family loyal and to ensure
the safety of the twins, Maya and Miki.

She loved them as if
they were the daughters she had never had. She had cared for them when Kaede
had taken so long to recover after their birth; she had overseen all their
training in the ways of the Tribe; she had protected and defended them against
all those who wished them ill.

She had one other aim
that she was not sure she had the strength to fulfill, the one that she had put
to Takeo and he had rejected. She could not help recalling another warlord,
Iida Sadamu, from so long ago, and the plot to assassinate him. If only the
world were as straightforward now. She had told Takeo that as the Muto Master
and old friend to the Otori she had to advise him to get rid of Zenko. This was
still her opinion when she thought clearly. But when she thought as a mother .
. .

Takeo has told me he
will not take Zenko’s life, she thought. There is no need for me to act against
his wishes. No one can expect it of me.

But in some secret
part of her she expected it of herself.

She would discuss it
with no one, but from time to time she took it out and looked at it steadily,
accustoming herself to its darkness, its threat and its appeal.

Bunta’s son, a boy of
fifteen or sixteen, came with them, looked after the horses, bought the food,
and rode on ahead to make arrangements at the next stopping place. The weather
was fine, the spring planting finished, the rice fields pale green from the
seedlings and blue from the reflected sky. The roads were safe and well
maintained, the towns cheerful and prosperous, food plentiful and delicious -
for on the high roads the horse stations vied with each other to produce local
delicacies and specialties.

Shizuka marvelled
anew at Takeo and Kaede’s achievements, at the richness and contentment of
their country, and grieved at the lust for power and craving for revenge that
threatened it.

For not everyone
rejoiced at the land’s stability and peacefulness. In Tsuwano the Muto family
with whom she stayed grumbled at their lack of status among the merchants now
that so many people were involved in trade, and in Yamagata, in Kenji’s old
house, now owned by one of her cousins, Yoshio, the conversation turned in the
evening to the good old days, when Kikuta and Muto were friends and everyone
feared and respected them.

Shizuka had known
Yoshio almost all his life. He was one of the boys she had outfought and
outwitted during their childhood training in the hidden village. He treated her
with familiarity and spoke openly to her. She did not know if she could count
on his support, but at least he was honest with her.

‘It was different
while Kenji was alive,’ Yoshio said. ‘Everyone respected him, and could see his
reasons for making peace with the Otori. Takeo had information that could have
destroyed the Tribe, as he nearly did in Maruyama. Then, it was the expedient
thing to do: it bought us time, and preserved our strength. But increasingly
people are saying the Kikuta’s demands for justice need to be heard: Takeo’s
guilty of the worst of offences, absconding from the Tribe and killing the
Master of his family. He’s got away with it for all these years, but now
between them Akio and Arai Zenko are in a position to execute judgement on him.’

‘Kenji swore
allegiance to Takeo on behalf of the entire Muto family,’ Shizuka reminded him.
‘As has my son - many times. And I’m not only head of the Muto family because
Takeo appointed me: it was Kenji’s wish too.’

‘Kenji can’t speak
from the grave, can he? As far as most of us are concerned - I’m being honest
with you, Shizuka, I’ve always admired you and liked you too, even though you
were an insufferable kid, but you grew out of that: you were even quite pretty
for a while!’ He grinned at her and poured her more wine.

‘You can spare me the
compliments,’ she returned, drinking the wine at one gulp. ‘I’m too old for all
that now!’

‘You drink like a man
as well as fighting like one!’ he-said with some admiration.

‘I can lead like a
man, too,’ she assured him.

‘I don’t doubt it.
But, as I was saying, people in the Tribe resent the fact that Takeo appointed
you. The Mur family affairs have never been decided by warlords—’

‘Takeo is rather more
than a warlord!’ Shizuka pro-tested.

‘How did he get
power? Like any other warlord, by grasping opportunities, dealing ruthlessly
with his en-emies, and betraying those he had sworn allegiance to.

‘That is only one way
of describing him!’

‘It is the Tribe’s
way,’ Yoshio said, smiling broadly.

Shizuka said, ‘The
evidence of his government is all around: fertile land, healthy children, rich
merchants.’

‘Frustrated warriors
and unemployed spies,’ Yoshio argued, gulping down his wine and filling their
bowls again. ‘Bunta, you’re very quiet. You tell Shizuka I’m right.’

Bunta raised his bowl
to his lips and gazed at Shizuka over its rim as he drank. ‘It’s not only that
Takeo appointed you, and that you’re a woman. There are other suspicions about
you, far graver ones.’

Yoshio was no longer
smiling, but sat with com. pressed lips, staring downwards.

‘People wondered how
Takeo knew where to find the Tribe in Maruyama when he had never been there in
his life. There were rumours that Lord Shigeru had recorded information on the
Tribe for years; everyone knew that he and Kenji were friends, but Shigeru knew
far more about the Tribe than he would have learned from Kenji. Someone was
feeding him information.’

Both men glanced at
her when Bunta paused, but she made no response.

‘People are saying it
was you, and that’s why Takeo made you head of the Muto family, to reward you
for your years of treachery.’

The word hung in the
air like a blow.

‘Forgive me,’ Bunta
added hurriedly. ‘I’m not saying I am one of them; I just want to warn you. Of
course Akio will take advantage of these rumours, which could be very dangerous
for you.’

‘It’s all a long time
ago,’ Shizuka said with assumed lightness. ‘During Iida’s rule, and in the
civil war, many acted in a way that might be called treachery. Zenko’s father
turned on Takeo after vowing alliance with him, yet who could blame him?
Everyone knew sooner or later the Arai would fight the Otori for control of the
Three Countries. The Otori won: the Tribe went with the victor, as we always
do, as we will continue to do.’

‘Unh,’ Yoshio
grunted. ‘Now it looks as though the Arai will be challenging the Otori again.
No one thinks Takeo is going to retire meekly into exile, whatever happens in
the contest in Miyako. He’ll come back and fight. He might defeat Zenko in the
West, and possibly, though it’s less likely, Saga in the East, but he can’t win
against both of them. We should go with the victor . . .’

‘And then the Kikuta
will have their revenge,’ Bunta said. ‘They’ve waited long enough for it. It
goes to show, no one escapes the Tribe for ever.’

Shizuka heard the
words like a ghostly echo, for she had said the same thing about Takeo’s future
to Kaede years ago, at Terayama.

‘You can save
yourself, Shizuka, and very likely the Muto family too. All you have to do is
recognize Zenko as head of the family. We detach ourselves from Takeo before he’s
defeated; we don’t get dragged down with him, and whatever secrets might lie in
your past will remain buried.’

‘Taku will never
agree to it,’ she said, voicing her thoughts.

‘He will if you tell
him to, as head of the family and his mother. He’s got no choice. Anyway, Taku’s
a reasonable sort of fellow. He’ll see it’s for the best. Zenko will become
Saga’s vassal, the Tribe will be united again, we regain our power, and since
Saga intends to bring all the Eight Islands under his rule, we will have
interesting and lucrative employment for years to come.’

And I will not have
to seek my son’s death, Shizuka thought.

She left for the Muto
village, Kagemura, the next day. It was the day after the full moon and she
rode in a sombre mood, disturbed by the previous night’s conversation, fearing
that the Muto family in the secret village would have the same views and urge
her to follow the same course. Bunta said little, and she found herself angry
and uncomfortable with him. How long had he suspected her? Ever since he had
first started reporting to her on Shigeru’s relationship with Maruyama Naomi?
She had lived with the fear that her betrayal of the Tribe would be discovered
for many years, but since she had admitted it to Kenji, and received his approval
and forgiveness, the fear had receded. Now it surfaced again, making her alert and
defensive in a way she had not been for years, prepared at any moment to have
to fight for her life. She found herself assessing Bunta and the boy, working
out how she would take them if they turned on her. She had not allowed her
skills to diminish, still trained every day as she had done all her life, but
she was no longer young; she could outfight most men with the sword but knew
she could not match them in physical strength.

They came to the inn
at nightfall and rose early the next morning, leaving the boy and the horses
there, to walk on foot, as she had with Kondo, through the mountains. She had
slept lightly, aware of every sound, and her heaviness of spirit had increased:
the morning was misty, the sky overcast. She had an almost uncontrollable
desire to weep. She could not stop thinking of Kondo: she had lain with him in
this very place; she had not loved him but he had touched her in some way, she
had pitied him, and then he had appeared at the very moment when she thought
her life was about to be brought to a slow and agonizing end, only to be burned
to death in front of her eyes. His stolid, pragmatic character seemed to take
on an almost unbearable tragic nobility. How pathetic he had been, and how
admirable! Why was she so moved by his memory now? It was almost as if his
spirit was reaching out to hers, to tell her something, to warn her.

Even the sudden sight
of the Muto village in the hidden valley failed to delight her as it usually
did. It was late afternoon when they arrived, but though the sun had come out
briefly at midday, now that it was setting behind the steep mountain range the
mist was rising in the valley again. It was cold, making her glad of the hooded
cloak she wore. The gates of the village were barred, and, it seemed to her,
were opened reluctantly. Even the houses had a closed and hostile look about
them, the wooden walls dark with moisture, roofs weighted down with stones.

Her grandparents had
died years before: the old house was now inhabited by families the age of her
sons, with young children; she did not know any of them well, though she was
familiar with their names, their talents, and most of the details of their
lives.

Kana and Miyabi,
grandmothers now, still ran the household, and they at least greeted her with
unfeigned pleasure. She was less sure of the sincerity of the welcome from the
other adults, though the children were excited by her arrival, especially Miki.

It was barely two
months since Shizuka had last seen her: she was surprised by the change in the
girl. She had grown taller and had lost weight, so that she appeared stretched
and attenuated. The sharp bones in her face were more pronounced and her eyes
glittered in their hollow sockets.