The Samurai's Wife Page 10

  Yet he realized that his behavior might provoke Sano’s suspicion. Now he forced himself to walk away, out the gate, and down the passage through the kuge district toward his residence.

  Suddenly, a Tokugawa soldier stepped from around a corner. Solid and grim-faced, he blocked Ichijo’s path. “Honorable Right Minister, please come with me,” he said.

  “Where?” Ichijo said, startled. “Why?”

  The soldier merely repeated, “Come with me,” in a tone that discouraged refusal.

  Alarm seized Ichijo. Every instinct warned him not to go, but disobeying a bakufu order would bring harsh punishment. Longing for the days when his ancestors ruled Japan and the power of the Imperial Court was supreme, Ichijo let the soldier escort him out the northern palace gate.

  In the street outside waited more soldiers, and a black palanquin manned by four bearers. “Sit inside,” the soldier ordered Ichijo.

  Ichijo reluctantly complied. When the soldier closed the slatted blinds over the windows of the sedan chair and barred the doors shut, Ichijo’s alarm turned to fear. “What’s going on?” he called. “Am I under arrest?”

  No answer came. The palanquin rose as the bearers shouldered the poles, then began moving at a brisk pace. Ichijo didn’t dare try to break out or call for help. He desperately sought a reason for his abduction. Perhaps the bakufu did suspect him of killing Left Minister Konoe; perhaps he was on his way to trial. But if so, then why this secretive capture? The Tokugawa usually made a spectacle of criminals as a warning to the public, and ssakan Sano, officially in charge of the murder investigation, didn’t appear to be involved in this. Fighting panic, Ichijo tried to determine where his captors were taking him.

  He heard the noise of the crowds on Imadegawa Avenue. Then the palanquin turned right, heading north. Familiar smells of fish and lacquer emanated from some shops, and the noise of saws on wood from others; gongs rang in a shrine. Ichijo deduced that he was traveling along Karasuma Avenue. The motion nauseated him; nervous sweat drenched his body. Soon the traffic noises diminished. The palanquin tilted upward at a gradually increasing angle as it wound into the hills. Birds sang above the bearers’ labored breaths and the steady tramp of their feet. Inside the dim, hot compartment, every breath Ichijo drew reeked of his own terror.

  Abruptly, the ground leveled. Ichijo heard the creak of a gate swinging on rusty hinges. The bearers set down the palanquin. The door opened, but before Ichijo could glimpse his surroundings, a soldier leaned in and dropped a black cloth sack over his head. Strong hands dragged him from the palanquin.

  Gasping in the smothering darkness, Ichijo tried to pull off the sack and struggle free, but the soldiers pinned his arms behind him and marched him across grassy earth. He felt wind whipping his garments, and the heat of sunlight. Then a door slid open. The wind and heat abated as the atmosphere around him condensed into the vacuum of an interior space. The soldiers kicked off his shoes; his feet stumbled along a wooden floor. Ichijo wanted to protest, but in his terror, he feared he would vomit if he tried to speak.

  The floor beneath his feet changed to firm, cushioned tatami. The soldiers pushed him down on his knees and let go of him. Their footsteps retreated; a door closed. Ichijo sensed a human presence in the room with him. His panic mounted. He couldn’t breathe. Desperately, he tore the sack off his head.

  Bright light blinded him. As his vision focused, he saw that he was in a bare, spacious room. Sliding walls stood open to a vista of blue-white sky and hazy green hills bathed with sunshine. Murals depicting similar scenery gave the illusion that the room was an extension of the landscape outside. Then a man moved into Ichijo’s view. He was a tall, slender samurai, clad in dark silk robes, swords at his waist. He stood proudly erect; his face had a striking, sinister beauty.

  “Who are you?” Ichijo demanded, grasping at a semblance of his usual authority.

  The samurai smiled; his intense gaze scrutinized Ichijo. “My apologies for any discomfort or inconvenience you’ve suffered. Be assured that I wouldn’t have employed such an unusual method of conveying you here unless it was absolutely necessary. I am Chamberlain Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu.”

  Now Ichijo noticed the gold Tokugawa crests on the man’s surcoat. “The shogun’s second-in-command?” he asked in bewilderment. Fresh terror followed. The chamberlain was the most powerful man in Japan, with a reputation for cruelty. This secretive encounter—in a mysterious location and where no one knew Ichijo had gone—held the possibility for evil beyond imagination. “But…I did not know you were in Miyako.”

  “Very few people do know,” the chamberlain said, “and for now, I intend to keep it that way.”

  “Why?” When important bakufu officials came to town, they invariably did so with great fanfare.

  “My reasons are none of your concern.”

  The chamberlain’s suave arrogance outraged Ichijo. After he’d been coerced out of the palace, carted away like a piece of baggage, and frightened almost to death, his pride rebelled against further disrespect. Anger gave him daring.

  Rising, he said haughtily, “Whatever business you have with me, I prefer to discuss it in my office, under civilized conditions. Therefore, I shall go now.”

  He turned and started toward the door, but the chamberlain’s quiet voice halted him: “I wouldn’t advise that. The soldiers who brought you are waiting outside. They’ll use force to stop you. You’ll suffer much pain and accomplish nothing. So you’d best resign yourself to staying awhile.”

  Defeated, Ichijo faced his adversary’s scornful smile. “What do you want from me?” he said, hating his impotence, hating the whole Tokugawa regime.

  “Information,” the chamberlain said. He paced a swift circle around Ichijo; his steps wove an invisible snare. “Information regarding the murder of Left Minister Konoe.”

  With keen interest, Chamberlain Yanagisawa studied his prisoner. Right Minister Ichijo’s face was red and sweaty, his gray hair disordered, and his garments wrinkled, but his stance was confident; his noble breeding gave him an unshakable dignity, despite the terror that Yanagisawa’s sharp instincts detected in him. Admiration and misgivings stirred in Yanagisawa. Here was an opponent whose defeat would bring him great satisfaction, but he couldn’t expect an easy victory. Nor did he know exactly what he would do with whatever information he got from Ichijo.

  “Tell me about your relationship with Konoe,” he said.

  Ichijo’s features assumed an impassive expression that didn’t quite mask how much he longed to avoid the subject of his dead colleague. He said, “That seems more a matter of concern to ssakan Sano, who is investigating Konoe’s affairs, than to yourself. Why are you treating me this way?”

  “Let’s just say that I have a personal interest in the case.” Yanagisawa recognized a ploy to divert the conversation away from the left minister. He’d thought himself the master of verbal warfare, but Ichijo equaled him. The knowledge rankled, and he found satisfaction in remembering the decline of Ichijo’s clan, the Fujiwara.

  They’d once controlled huge areas of land by giving protection to the owners in exchange for revenues and loyalty, but as decades passed, they’d squandered their energy on frivolous amusements. Their hold on the provinces relaxed. Revolts broke out in the countryside. The Fujiwara were forced to rely upon the Taira and Minamoto warrior clans to maintain order. Eventually those clans clashed during the Gempei Wars two centuries ago. The Minamoto won the right to rule in the name of the emperor, marking the end of the Fujiwara era and the triumph of the samurai. Right Minister Ichijo and his kind were artifacts of a dead regime.

  “Does ssakan Sano know you’re doing this?” Ichijo asked.

  His impertinence vexed Yanagisawa. “You’re here to answer questions, not ask them,” he said. “Stop stalling. Kneel!”

  With a look that disdained Yanagisawa and the entire samurai class as crude louts, Ichijo knelt.

  “Now tell me about Left Minister Konoe,” Yanagisawa said.

&nb
sp; A brief pause conveyed Ichijo’s opinion that the matter was none of Yanagisawa’s business and he would comply only because of the threat of punishment. “Konoe-san was wise, diligent, and respectable. A brilliant administrator.”

  Chamberlain Yanagisawa perceived an artificial note in Ichijo’s voice. “You didn’t like him, then.”

  “We were colleagues, and cousins.” A faint twitch of the right minister’s aristocratic mouth rebuked Yanagisawa for questioning his family affection—the Konoe, too, belonged to the Fujiwara clan. The Imperial Court was a world united against outsiders, but Yanagisawa had a special weapon with which to penetrate it: the metsuke reports he’d hidden from Sano and studied during the journey to Miyako.

  “I understand that the post of imperial prime minister is vacant,” he said.

  “Yes, that is correct.” A subtle stiffening of Ichijo’s posture indicated that he guessed where this was leading. “The last incumbent of that office died this spring.”

  The prime minister was the highest court official. He acted as chief adviser to the emperor, controlled communications between the sovereign and the five thousand palace residents, and governed the noble class. Power over such a tiny kingdom seemed trivial to Yanagisawa, but he knew it mattered to the nobles, who had nothing else to aspire to because they were barred from engaging in trade or holding real government posts.

  “When did the emperor plan to name a new prime minister?” Yanagisawa asked, though he already knew the answer.

  “At the end of this month.”

  “Who were the leading candidates?”

  Ichijo hesitated, then said, “Really, Honorable Chamberlain, I fail to see why court appointments should concern you.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Left Minister Konoe and myself were in line to be the next prime minister,” Ichijo conceded.

  “And which of you was more likely to win the honor?” Yanagisawa said.

  “As left minister and head of the senior branch of our clan, my cousin Konoe-san outranked me.” Ichijo’s features had gone rigid. “His Majesty the Emperor would have taken that into consideration, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” Yanagisawa agreed, “but you minded, nonetheless?”

  Ichijo glared at him.

  Yanagisawa pressed on: “You were superior to Konoe in age, experience, and character.” Ichijo’s reputation was free of scandal, his career a dull testament to duty. “You deserved to be prime minister, and Konoe considered you a rival. I daresay you didn’t appreciate the methods he used against you.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?”

  The sharp, black edges of Ichijo’s teeth flashed between lips that barely moved; both menace and fear laced his quiet monotone. An enthusiast of the No theater, Yanagisawa pictured himself and Ichijo as two actors on stage, moving toward a dramatic climax. Beyond the balcony overlooking the hillside, Obon gongs and birds’ cries mimicked the music and chorus of No drama. As afternoon slipped into evening, a shaft of coppery sunlight angled through the window, illuminating Ichijo’s kneeling figure.

  “Konoe circulated rumors among the most influential members of the court,” Yanagisawa said. “He claimed that you were getting senile; you’d lost control of your bladder and bowels, and he’d seen you wandering about the city, unable to find your way home. According to Konoe, you were in no shape to be prime minister, regardless of your excellent record.”

  Indignation burned red slashes across Ichijo’s high cheekbones. “I suppose your spies told you what Konoe said. His accusations were nothing but vicious, self-serving slander.”

  The papers Yanagisawa had taken from Konoe’s office had included plans to discredit Ichijo, and copies of reports sent to high court nobles. “Now that Konoe is dead, who will be the next prime minister?”

  “The selection process has begun over again, and the outcome is uncertain.” Ichijo had regained his composure, and he spoke with chill asperity.

  “But who is now the highest court official? Who’s in the best position to ingratiate himself with the emperor?”

  Ichijo greeted the accusing questions with a thin smile. “In the ancient art of statesmanship, it is unnecessary to belabor the obvious.” His tone implied that only a samurai would commit such a sin. “However, I shall answer you. Yes, I shall probably be appointed prime minister.”

  “Did you murder Konoe to win the promotion?” Yanagisawa demanded, bristling at Ichijo’s unspoken insult.

  “Your accusation is ridiculous and unfounded,” Ichijo said disdainfully, “and since you already think you know so much, you don’t need me to answer your questions. It is obvious that nothing I say will change your twisted interpretation of the facts, so why stage this farce?”

  While Yanagisawa had considered Ichijo the prime murder suspect from the start, he’d needed to confirm his judgment by meeting Ichijo. He hadn’t really expected a confession, although it would have helped. Ichijo’s intelligence and forceful character reaffirmed his decision to hide from Sano the facts about the right minister. Yanagisawa could believe that Ichijo’s talents included the power of kiai. Ichijo and Konoe had been political enemies, and Konoe’s death had benefited Ichijo, but other circumstances also implied his guilt.

  Yanagisawa said, “The Imperial Court allowed days to pass before notifying the shoshidai of Left Minister Konoe’s death. I understand that it was your decision to delay news of the murder.”

  “It was my decision for the court to conduct an inquiry and document the incident before reporting the death.”

  “Fancy language for attempted deception,” Yanagisawa remarked. “Where were you when Left Minister Konoe died?”

  “I was in the tea ceremony cottage, where I often go in the evenings,” Ichijo said, his manner calm. “My daughter Lady Asagao was with me.” He added, “She is the emperor’s consort.”

  Chamberlain Yanagisawa hid his glee at catching Ichijo in an outright lie. According to Yoriki Hoshina’s report, a young noble and a lady-in-waiting had used the tiny, one-room cottage for a lover’s tryst that night. Ichijo and his daughter couldn’t have been there at the same time. The right minister knew Lady Asagao was a suspect, and he clearly intended to secure an alibi from someone he could trust to lie for him, and to protect his connection with the emperor.

  “If you were in the tea cottage, then you must have heard the scream, and the uproar after Left Minister Konoe’s death,” Yanagisawa said, “but you didn’t go to the Pond Garden to see what was happening, although Lady Asagao did. When the palace guards went to report the death to you, they couldn’t find you anywhere.” These were more facts that Yoriki Hoshina had withheld from Sano. “Why didn’t you appear and take charge?”

  “I admit I was negligent.” Ichijo sidestepped the question with commendable agility, then said, “If you are so sure I am a murderer, why do you risk antagonizing me?” Black teeth gleamed in his smile. “Are you not afraid I will kill you before you can summon your guards?”

  Chuckling, Yanagisawa paced in a narrowing spiral around Ichijo. “Risks are an essential part of life.” He refused to betray that he did indeed fear Ichijo. “Besides, you surely realize that my associates know where I am and with whom, as well as all the facts about you. You couldn’t get away with killing me.”

  “Well, then,” Ichijo said, rising stiffly and staring down Yanagisawa, “I suppose you will arrest me for the murder.”

  “Oh, no. You’re quite free to go.” Yanagisawa clapped his hands; two guards entered the room. He ordered, “Take the right minister back to the palace.”

  Ichijo stared in astonishment. “But…if you’re not arresting me, then why abduct me?” Distrust and incredulity mingled in his voice. “Why accuse me, then release me?”

  Chamberlain Yanagisawa merely smiled, bowed, and said, “A thousand thanks for your company, Honorable Right Minister.” He’d gotten what he needed from Ichijo: the chance to assess the prime suspect, and an idea for the next step in his scheme to
solve the case, trap the killer, and destroy Sano.

  He sensed Ichijo’s desire to escape, but the right minister remained immobile, his calculating gaze fixed on Yanagisawa. “I presume the ssakan-sama isn’t aware you’re in Miyako because you don’t want him to know, and you’re the reason he hasn’t identified me as a suspect. What if I were to tell him about our talk?”

  “That would be a mistake,” Yanagisawa said, “because then Sano would focus his investigation on you. If he doesn’t discover by himself what I know about you, I’ll tell him. Either way, he’ll arrest you. So I trust you will keep our meeting a secret?”

  Ichijo conceded with a grudging nod. The slight tension of anxiety relaxed in Yanagisawa, because if things progressed according to plan, he needn’t interview anyone else, and he’d silenced the only person who might expose him.

  10

  “I’m troubled about this case,” Sano said to Reiko.

  Having finished the day’s work at the Imperial Palace, they were back in their room at Nij Manor. While twilight darkened the windows and gongs heralded the start of the evening’s Obon rituals, Sano dressed for the shoshidai’s banquet, which was for men only. Reiko sat nearby.

  “It’s only been one day,” she said. “You can’t expect to solve the mystery so soon.”

  “I know.” As he put on a maroon silk kimono over wide trousers, Sano tried to define his feelings. One of the things he cherished most about his marriage to Reiko was the way their two minds often came up with answers that eluded his lone efforts. At first he’d had a hard time accepting a woman’s help, but now it seemed natural to discuss his ideas with Reiko.