The Incense Game: A Novel of Feudal Japan Read online

  “Surprise,” the samurai in the middle said. With his athletic physique and strong, regular features, he looked the perfect samurai. His flowing dark gray coat and trousers swirled around him in a wind of his own creation. A twinkle in his deep black eyes, and a left eyebrow that was higher than the right, gave him a rakish charm.

  “Greetings, Tahara-san,” Hirata said.

  Tahara was the trio’s leader, the one Hirata feared most, although he was almost as afraid of the others. They were the only men in Japan capable of defeating him in combat. His friendship with them felt as hazardous as holding a wasp in his mouth.

  “Fancy running into you,” Hirata said. “I haven’t seen you in, what, seven days?”

  “Eight.” Tahara’s eyes twinkled brighter: He knew that Hirata knew the exact length of the time since their last meeting. “Sorry to make myself so scarce.” His voice had a curious quality that was at once smooth and rough, that brought to mind a stream flowing over jagged rocks. “I’ve been busy guarding the Tokugawa rice warehouses.” His clan were retainers to the daimyo of Iga Province, known for its tradition of mystic martial arts practiced by the ninja, a cult of peasant warriors adept at stealth. The daimyo had loaned Tahara to the government for security work.

  “Pity the poor thief who tries to get past you,” Hirata said.

  Tahara, who could kill a man as quickly and effortlessly as look at him, shrugged with a modest smile.

  Hirata turned to the other samurai. “What have you been up to, Kitano-san?”

  “Leading Lord Satake’s fire brigade.” Kitano Shigemasa was a retainer to Lord Satake. He wore the iron helmet and armor tunic of a soldier. Although he was in his fifties and gray-haired, his figure was robust. His eyes crinkled as if in a smile, but the rest of his face, a mesh of scars, remained immobile. As a youth, he’d been wounded in a drunken brawl, his face badly cut. The cuts had damaged his facial nerves. “Can’t let the rest of Edo burn down.”

  The government delegated the responsibility for fighting fires to the daimyo, whose efforts had proved woefully inadequate during the earthquake. Since then, they’d much increased their manpower and vigilance.

  “And you, Deguchi-san?” Hirata turned to the third man.

  Deguchi was a Buddhist priest from the Zōjō Temple district. His maroon cloak covered a saffron-dyed robe. His shaved head was bare. Thirty years old, he could pass for twenty or forty. Although his long, oval face was plain—the eyes heavily lidded, the nose flat, and mouth pursed—he had a haunting, luminescent beauty. His eyes glowed as they met Hirata’s.

  “He’s been giving charity to the earthquake victims,” Kitano said. Deguchi never spoke; he was mute. Tahara had explained to Hirata that Deguchi was an orphan who’d lived on the streets, working as a prostitute. A customer had strangled him and damaged his throat.

  And Hirata had been wounded in the leg and crippled when he’d taken a blade for Sano. He and Deguchi and Kitano had something in common—a life-changing injury. Ozuno had helped them overcome their handicaps. Hirata couldn’t tell what, if any, injury Tahara had sustained.

  Tahara glanced at the bodies in the oxcart. “Taking earthquake victims to Edo Morgue? Isn’t that a bit menial for a fellow of your rank? What are you up to?”

  “It’s confidential.” Hirata couldn’t tell anyone what was in store at the morgue, and he didn’t like sharing his business with these men. “What do you want?”

  Kitano wagged his finger at Hirata. “There’s no need to be so abrupt with your friends.”

  Tahara sidled off, drawing Kitano, Deguchi, and Hirata out of the oxcart driver’s earshot, then said, “It’s time for a ritual.”

  Irritation jabbed Hirata. “Not again.”

  “Why not?” Kitano said, a hint of pique beneath his amusement. “The rituals are the purpose of our secret society. That was explained to you before you joined.”

  “When I joined your secret society, you explained that the purpose was to influence the course of fate and transform the world according to a cosmic plan for its destiny,” Hirata reminded Kitano. “You said you had an ancient book of magic spells that you inherited from Ozuno when he died. You told me that the spells are activated by the rituals you do. But that’s starting to sound like nonsense. Because you won’t show me this book. And because I’ve done five rituals with you and nothing has happened. We sat in the woods at night. We burned incense and chanted some gibberish. All we accomplished was to get stung by mosquitoes in the summer and freeze our behinds in the winter. So excuse me if I’m not eager for another ritual.”

  Kitano’s eyes narrowed. Deguchi brooded. Tahara looked a little abashed as he said, “We also told you that we don’t control whether, or when, the rituals produce the magic. That’s up to the spirits that the rituals are designed to invoke.”

  “That’s how it works,” Kitano said.

  “How it doesn’t work, you mean,” Hirata retorted.

  “Oh, it works,” Tahara said with an edge to his voice. “You saw for yourself, the day Yoritomo died.”

  What Hirata had seen was the reason he’d believed the three men could do everything they claimed, the reason he’d joined their secret society. But his awe had faded. “You said the magic reveals actions for you to take, that might seem trivial but will change the course of fate. Yes, I believed you brought about Yoritomo’s death. But now I think it was just a lucky fluke.”

  Temper ignited in the men’s eyes. Tahara said, “It was no fluke.” Their aura pulsed faintly, ominously.

  “I’m not doing another ritual,” Hirata said, despite his fear. “I’m already in trouble with my master, for taking time off work and lying about what I’ve been doing. Count me out.”

  “When you joined us, you swore to put the secret society ahead of all other things,” Tahara reminded Hirata. “You also swore that you wouldn’t reveal its business to outsiders.”

  “Those are terms I never should have agreed to.” Hirata had wanted to acquire the supernatural powers the men had, but he’d also wanted to gain some control over them and protect Sano. Now he regretted that he’d let the society come between him and Sano, him and the Way of the Warrior. “Why do you need me, anyway? The three of you have so much power—aren’t you enough?”

  They didn’t answer. Was that uncertainty Hirata sensed in them? He started to walk back to his horse and the oxcart. The three men moved so swiftly that their images blurred. As they blocked his path, their aura strengthened.

  “You agreed nonetheless,” Tahara said. “And now that you’re in the society, you must participate in the rituals. If you don’t—”

  Suddenly Hirata couldn’t speak or move. His body was stone, his breath caught. Tahara’s, Deguchi’s, and Kitano’s mental powers paralyzed him. Nearby, the oxcart driver napped and people huddled around the bonfires, unaware that anything unusual was afoot.

  “We’ll give you a little time to think about what you want,” Kitano said.

  Hirata’s heart pounded in his ears; his lungs struggled to suck air. Blackness rimmed his vision. His mind filled with the terrible knowledge of his helplessness, his mortality.

  “Then we’ll talk about the ritual,” Tahara said.

  A moment before Hirata lost consciousness, the men relaxed their power. His paralysis broke. He gulped huge, wheezing breaths, like a fish freed from a net and tossed back in water. The blackness receded. Flexing his muscles, he glared at his companions.

  Tahara smiled. Mirth crinkled Kitano’s eyes. Deguchi’s eyes glinted with satisfaction.

  “If you ever do that again, you’ll be sorry.” But Hirata knew he had no way to make them sorry. Three against one, they were too strong; even singly, they could each best him. “And I’m not doing any more rituals.”

  He stomped past them, brushing his hands against his sleeve. But his bravado was false. While he rode away, the skin on his back flinched under their gazes. Inside he trembled with fear that joining the society was the worst mistake he’d ev
er made, that he’d gotten himself into something far beyond his ability to handle.

  5

  THE WAY TO Lord Hosokawa’s house led Sano and his troops along the Daiichi Keihin, the main highway to points south. Fewer scenes of destruction met them as they left the outskirts of the city. Sano felt as if an iron clamp around his chest had loosened. Inhaling air that wasn’t tainted with dust or the smell of decay, he rested his tired eyes on the forests, whose bare trees laced the rim of a blue, clear sky. He was surprised that beauty still existed in the world. But even here there were reminders of the disaster. Trees leaned where the earth had shifted. Sano and his men jumped their horses across cracks that split the road. At last they neared a group of samurai estates, private towns enclosed by barracks. The damage was slight here. If Sano squinted, he couldn’t see the cracks in the long walls of the barracks or the few broken roofs. Soldiers milled around outside. The illusion of normality was jarring.

  The Hosokawa estate was the grandest in the area, with a gate made of wide, iron-studded planks. As Sano dismounted and approached the gate, two sentries scrambled out of an ornate guardhouse. They recognized Sano, greeted him, and bowed.

  “Are any women in Lord Hosokawa’s clan missing?” Sano asked.

  “Yes,” said a sentry. “Lord Hosokawa’s two daughters.”

  Resigned to being the bearer of bad news, Sano said, “Then I must speak with Lord Hosokawa.”

  He left his troops outside the estate while one servant escorted him into the mansion and another fetched Lord Hosokawa. Sano had barely entered the reception chamber when Lord Hosokawa rushed in. Lord Hosokawa was in his sixties, gray-haired and slight of build. He wore modest robes patterned in neutral colors instead of the opulent, fashionable garb that daimyo of his wealth usually affected. The lines in his face bespoke intelligence and constant worry. Two women, both in their late forties, followed.

  Lord Hosokawa rushed through the polite ritual of greeting. “My wife,” he said, introducing the woman with gray hair, sallow skin, and drab brown clothes. He gestured toward the other, who was done up with dyed-black hair and full makeup, her robes in brighter shades of maroon and teal. “Tama, my concubine.” The women leaned toward Sano, their faces anxious, their hands wringing. “Honorable Chamberlain, have you news of my daughters?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Sano said somberly. “We’ve found the bodies of two young women.”

  “Why do you think they’re my daughters?” Lord Hosokawa looked torn between the hope that the missing had been located and the wish that the dead weren’t his kin.

  “They were wearing these.” Sano displayed the sashes he’d brought.

  Lady Hosokawa snatched the magenta sash with the crests worked in gold thread. “That’s Myobu’s! I embroidered it for her myself!” She pressed the sash to her face and wept.

  The concubine grabbed the green, plainer sash. Cradling it, she fell to her knees, sobbed, and rocked back and forth. “Kumoi! No! No!”

  Pained by their grief, Sano averted his eyes. He’d witnessed similar scenes too many times since the earthquake. No family was untouched by loss.

  The lines on Lord Hosokawa’s face knitted his features into a mask of agony. He sagged to his knees. “Myobu. Kumoi.” He sounded as if he’d aged ten years. “My only two girls, my treasures. I prayed that they were alive, but I knew that after all this time, they couldn’t be.”

  Sano crouched opposite Lord Hosokawa. “I’m sorry to bring you such bad news.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. Thank you for coming. I know how busy you must be.” Lord Hosokawa swallowed tears. “It’s better to know that my children are dead than to spend the rest of my life wondering what had become of them.”

  Tama the concubine crawled up to Sano. “I want to see Kumoi!” The sash was twisted in the clasped hands that she raised to him. “Where is she?”

  “And Myobu?” Lady Hosokawa lifted her face. “May I see her?”

  Sano hesitated. He couldn’t tell the parents that the bodies were on the way to the morgue for an illegal examination.

  “You mustn’t,” Lord Hosokawa told the women. “Not after this long.” He obviously thought the bodies were too decomposed for the mothers to bear viewing.

  The women wept harder but accepted his pronouncement. Sano felt guilty about letting them keep a false impression.

  “After our daughters are cremated, may we have the ashes to bury in our family tomb?” Lord Hosokawa asked.

  “Certainly.” Sano couldn’t help feeling relieved that the family wouldn’t see the signs of the examination.

  Lord Hosokawa seemed to draw on the strength of will that had made him one of the most capable provincial rulers in Japan. “Where were they found?”

  “In a house in Nihonbashi that sank underground during the earthquake,” Sano said.

  Surprise momentarily distracted Lady Hosokawa from her grief. “Whose house?”

  “What were they doing there?” Tama asked between sobs.

  “The house belonged to an incense teacher named Usugumo,” Sano said. “She and your daughters were playing an incense game when the earthquake struck. They all died.”

  Lord Hosokawa shook his head, puzzled. “We didn’t know Myobu and Kumoi had left the estate that night. We didn’t realize they were missing until after the earthquake.” He turned to the women. “Did you know they were taking incense lessons in town?”

  “No,” Lady Hosokawa said.

  “Kumoi never told me,” Tama said.

  “I taught Myobu not to mix with commoners unless they’re people we know well, who work for our family or do business with us,” Lady Hosokawa said. “She never would have gone there on her own.” She angrily turned on Tama. “It must have been your daughter’s idea. She liked new fads. She liked slumming with the lower classes.”

  “That’s not true!” The fury in her eyes and the makeup running down her face made Tama look like a demon in a Kabuki play. “Your daughter was the big sister. Kumoi would follow her wherever she went. It’s Myobu’s fault that my daughter died in that house!”

  “Don’t you speak to me like that!” Lady Hosokawa slapped Tama’s face.

  Tama threw herself on Lady Hosokawa. The women became a clawing, sobbing, thrashing tangle of silk robes and disheveled hair. Lord Hosokawa grabbed his wife. Sano grabbed the concubine. They tore the women from each other. Ladies-in-waiting ran into the room. Two groups formed—one with Lady Hosokawa at the center, the other around Tama. They exchanged glares, like rival armies. Lady Hosokawa’s pack swept out of the room, followed by Tama’s.

  “Please forgive our bad manners,” Lord Hosokawa said, shamefaced, to Sano. “My wife and my concubine don’t get along.”

  Many men’s wives and concubines didn’t. That was one reason Sano would never bring another woman into his home. If he did that to Reiko, he would never have a moment of peace. The other reason was that he loved Reiko so much that he couldn’t imagine wanting anyone else. He was sorry that the death of Lord Hosokawa’s daughters had increased the strife between their mothers, who couldn’t even comfort each other.

  “How did my daughters die?” Lord Hosokawa asked. “Was it quick and merciful?”

  Here came the part of his mission that Sano had been dreading the most. He wished he could assure Lord Hosokawa that his daughters hadn’t suffered, but he couldn’t withhold the truth. Were he in Lord Hosokawa’s position, he would want to know.

  “It looks as if they weren’t killed by the earthquake.” Sano described their red eyes and the rescuer’s illness but omitted mentioning their eerily preserved corpses. “They appeared to have been poisoned. There may have been foul play.”

  “Do you mean murder?” Lord Hosokawa’s grief yielded to bewilderment and horror. “By whom?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Whoever killed my daughters will pay,” Lord Hosokawa said, angry now. “But I have no expertise in hunting criminals. Will you do it for me?”

&
nbsp; Sano could have said that it wasn’t his job anymore; but he would make an exception for his friend and ally. “I would be glad to, as soon as I’ve finished dealing with the problems caused by the earthquake.”

  A visible jolt of dismay ran through Lord Hosokawa. “When will that be? Years from now, when Edo is back to normal?” He made a slicing motion with his hand. “No. The killer’s trail will be cold by then.”

  “The trail is already cold,” Sano gently pointed out. “It’s been a month.”

  Lord Hosokawa seemed not to hear. “I can’t wait that long for justice. The hunt for the killer must begin now.” His eyes met Sano’s. Gone was their usual cautious, worried expression. They glittered with lust for revenge. He jabbed his finger at Sano and spoke as if addressing a subordinate instead of a representative of his lord. “You will help me at once!”

  “I’m sorry,” Sano said, disconcerted. “The shogun wouldn’t want me to take time off from rebuilding his capital to investigate two deaths.”

  Lord Hosokawa set his jaw against the implication that his daughters’ deaths were but a drop in the pail of casualties that the earthquake had begotten. “A few days or a month to find the killer—what difference will it make if Edo is rebuilt that much sooner or later?”

  Pitying the man, Sano sought a compromise. “I’ll send my people to investigate.” He thought of Hirata, then decided that Detective Marume would be more reliable, and perhaps the challenge would distract him from his grief.

  “No,” Lord Hosokawa said, obstinate. “I want the best for my daughters. I’ll have no one but you.” His unnaturally bright gaze revealed the wits he’d used to make his domain among the best managed and most profitable. “I’ll make it worth your while. The government is desperately in need of money, isn’t it? The treasury is almost drained?”

  Sano was too surprised to control his expression. The regime’s finances weren’t supposed to be public knowledge.