Indeed, Kenji glanced at her in his amused, sardonic way as Kotaro continued, “But the possibility of future sons has persuaded Sadamu that he made a mistake last year not insisting on Shigeru’s death. He has become even more obsessed by him. Only Shigeru’s death will free him and give him peace.”
“Why did he spare him before?” Shizuka asked. None of them were confidants to Lord Iida, but Kotaro lived in Inuyama, had his own spies there, and dealt with Iida’s retainers, Ando and Abe. He knew the warlord’s thoughts and intentions better than any of them.
“He had some curious idea that he was acting with honor. His vanity was undermined by the fact that he won the battle only through treachery and that Shigeru had saved his life two years earlier in the underground caverns. He thought he was canceling a debt.”
“It is as impossible for Sadamu to act with honor as it is for Shigeru to act with dishonor,” Kenji said and laughed as though he were joking.
“That’s what many are saying,” Kotaro agreed, “though not within earshot of the Tohan, if they value their tongues and ears.” He laughed, too, and went on, watching Kenji’s face closely. “But I’ve received a request, though in fact it was not put quite that delicately, from Ando, for Shigeru to be removed, before the end of the year.”
Kenji gestured to Shizuka to fill his bowl and drank before replying. The three of them were sitting in the back room of a merchant’s house; at the end of the room was a small veranda and beyond that an unpaved yard. Someone had placed a few pots of sacred bamboo and silver leaf around the edge of the veranda, but the yard was filled with pallets, boxes, and baskets. Near the gate two packhorses and some porters were waiting patiently to be loaded up. From beyond the walls came the sounds of the port city. The rhythm of life in Hofu followed the winds and the tides; it was midday; the high tide and the sudden change in the direction of the wind had brought a flurry of activity that masked Kenji’s long silence.
Finally, he said mildly, “I thought we agreed last year that Iida was better kept off balance, that Shigeru should remain alive.”
Shizuka reflected that she had never seen either of them lose their temper. When they became angry, they spoke more and more gently, never relinquishing their iron self-control. She had seen both of them kill with the same cool precision and lack of emotion. She had a sudden vision of Shigeru under their knives and was astonished at the pain it caused her and a completely uncharacteristic feeling of guilt.
The wind rattled the flimsy screens. “It is an easterly,” Kotaro said with some irritation.
“It will keep you in Hofu for a while,” Kenji remarked, for Kotaro was on his way home to Inuyama from the West. “We will have time for a few more games.”The two men had been playing Go, and the tray holding the board and its pieces sat on the matting between them. “What took you to Maruyama anyway?”
“Another extremely well paid mission for Lord Iida,” Kotaro replied. “It must not be repeated beyond these walls, but I don’t mind telling you. Sadamu’s furious that the Western clans did not join him in the attack on the Otori. He lost too many men at Yaegahara to undertake any more military campaigns, yet he wants to punish the Seishuu, Lady Maruyama in particular. He hopes to persuade her to obey her husband’s family as a good wife should.”
He glanced at Shizuka. “Your warrior has had his wings clipped, has he not? Is he suitably shamed and repentant?”
“He tries to pretend to be,” Shizuka replied. “His life depends on it. Underneath, he is very angry. He resents being forced to serve a traitor, and he fears his brothers will usurp him if his father should die while he is away from the domain with the Noguchi.”
“Serves him right!” Kotaro returned, laughing again. “Make sure you keep a close eye on him, as you did last year, especially if he is contemplating any more rash meetings. Let us know at once. You’re in a perfect position to carry out any judgment, and I won’t have to make another long and tedious journey.” He leaned forward and said more quietly to Kenji, “I had no idea there were so few Tribe families in Maruyama, and no Kikuta at all. That’s why I had to go myself. Are we dying out? Why do we have so few children?”
He turned to Shizuka and demanded, “What’s your son like? Does he have Kikuta hands?”
It had been the first thing she had checked as soon as the baby was born, looking for the straight line across the palm that marked the Kikuta family, that she had inherited from her mother. She shook her head. “He takes after his father.”
“Mixing the blood seems to mostly decrease the skills,” Kotaro grumbled. “That’s why the Tribe has always been against it. But it’s disappointing. There have been exceptions where it increases them. I hoped he might be one of them.”
“His talents may develop as he grows older,” Kenji said. “As the Muto’s do. He has, after all, Muto blood in him.”
“How old is he?” Kotaro asked.
“He is six months,” Shizuka replied.
“Well, don’t get too attached to him. Infants can pass away suddenly for a variety of reasons.” He grinned as he finished speaking. “Like Maruyama Naomi’s son who died a few days ago. He was about the same age.”
“He died while you were in Maruyama?” Kenji said more coolly than ever.
“Sadamu wanted her warned. There’s no better way to strike at a woman.”
“You killed her child?” Shizuka could not help exclaiming.
“‘Kill’ is a strong word. I hardly had to do anything. I just looked in his eyes. He slept, never to wake again.”
She tried to conceal the shudder that ran through her. She had heard about this skill that only the Kikuta possessed, to induce instant unconsciousness through their gaze. An adult, she knew, would wake from it, though they were more usually killed while they were disabled; a baby would be completely vulnerable . . .
Kotaro was proud of himself; she detected a trace of boastfulness in his voice. Suddenly she hated him, for the murder and for the pleasure he took in it. She hated these men who controlled so many lives, including her own, with their ruthlessness and cruelty. They had made her get rid of the first child she had conceived. Now she thought she discerned a threat against her living son, a reminder to obey them. She was filled with bitter resentment even toward Kenji, though she had always believed him to be genuinely fond of her.
She looked at him now. His face was expressionless, with no sign of shock or disapproval.
“So Shigeru is next,” Kotaro declared. “I admit, he will be harder.”
“We have not quite reached an agreement on Shigeru,” Kenji replied. “Indeed, the Muto family are under orders to take no part in any attempt on his life.”
When Kotaro made no immediate response to this, Kenji went on. “Shigeru is mine; I saved his life at Yaegahara; but apart from that, he is more useful to all of us alive.”
“I don’t want to fall out with you over this,” Kotaro said. “The unity between the families of the Tribe is far more important than either Sadamu or Shigeru. Let’s draw lots for him. We’ll see if Heaven is on his side.” He scooped up a handful of Go pieces from where they lay on the board after the last game and placed them in their bag. He held it out to Shizuka. “Take one,” he said.
She drew it from the bag and laid it down on the matting between them. It was white. They all stared at it for a few seconds.
“Match it and he’s yours,” Kotaro said. “Shizuka, close your eyes. I will put one stone of each color into each of your hands. Then Kenji will choose.”
She held her closed fists out to her uncle, praying that Heaven would guide him. Kenji tapped her left hand. She opened it; the black piece lay on her Kikuta-marked palm. Involuntarily, not trusting Kotaro, she opened her other hand. The stone was white.
Kenji said with infinite gentleness, “This covers one attempt. I’ll go along with that. But if you fail, Shigeru’s life reverts to me.”
“We will not fail,” Kotaro said.
38
Shigeru
took up traveling again, in unmarked clothes with his face hidden, taking care to change his appearance on every new journey, hoping to avoid recognition. In the course of the year, the new boundaries were established more firmly and barriers set up at bridges and crossroads. The Otori had lost the whole of the South and had been pushed back from the East into a narrow strip along the coast. Shigeru walked through all the remaining territory, knowing it intimately, talking to the farmers, feeling that they often suspected who he was but knew how to keep his secret. He learned about how they organized village life, who the headmen were, their indomitable readiness to confront their lords with their grievances.
When the plum rains put an end to his travels early in the sixth month, he spent the days making careful records of everything he had seen and heard, working until deep into the night with Ichiro.
Late one afternoon, as the rain fell steadily on the roof, dripping from the eaves, trickling down the chains, filling the new ponds in the garden, Chiyo appeared and told him a visitor had arrived.
“On a day like this?” Ichiro muttered. “He must be a madman.”
Chiyo, who with her increasing age and the new informality of the household had become ever more familiar, said, “Certainly, rather an unusual caller, if not a madman. He looks like some kind of merchant, but he asked for Lord Shigeru as if he were an old friend.”
“What is his name?” Shigeru said, only half paying attention.
“Muto,” Chiyo replied.
“Ah.” Shigeru finished the sentence he was writing and laid down his brush. He flexed his fingers for a moment. “You had better show him in.”
Chiyo looked reluctant. “He’s very wet,” she said.
“Then prepare a bath and find dry clothes for him. We will eat together in the upper room. And bring wine,” he added.
“Who is it?” Ichiro inquired.
“Someone I met last year. I’ll tell you about him later. But I want to talk to him alone first.”
“IT’S BEEN A LONG TIME,” Kenji said as he came into the upstairs room. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
“It’s the least I can do, in return for yours,” Shigeru replied. “I’m glad to see you. You said you would send someone to me, but I’m assuming you changed your mind?”
“Unh.” Kenji nodded. “It seemed best not to draw attention to you. It’s been a hard year for everyone. You were obviously reducing your household anyway. It might have been difficult to place someone new.”
“So I’m not currently employing one of your members?” Shigeru said, smiling.
“No, but Iida would be happier if you were!”
“Iida may as well forget about me: he has rendered me impotent against him.”
“Hmm.” Kenji made another of his expressive grunts. “That may be how you present yourself to the world, but don’t forget you are now talking to the man who delivered your father’s sword to you and who heard it speak.” He gestured toward the sword in its stand at the end of the room. “You have not given it up, I see.”
“I will only hand it over to my heir when my death is inevitable,” Shigeru replied. “But I am not seeking revenge. All that is behind me. I have become a farmer.” He smiled blandly at Kenji.
“Nevertheless, Iida is still very concerned with you. Almost obsessed, you might say. It’s as if some invisible thread binds you to him. He seeks information about you constantly. He is tormented by the fact that he only defeated the Otori through treachery. He won the battle but lost his honor.”
Shigeru said lightly, “Is there any real honor among warriors anymore? These days, all men seize opportunities to advance themselves and justify their actions afterward. The Tohan chroniclers can write Iida Sadamu’s version of events and make him the undisputed hero of Yaegahara.”
“I agree with you completely,” Kenji said. “My work, after all, involves me intimately with the dark side of the warrior class. But men with the immense vanity of Iida want to appear honorable while acting dishonorably. It’s beginning to dawn on him that he will never win that battle with you. And there are already many balladeers in the Three Countries making up songs about it!”
“I’m flattered,” Shigeru replied. “But it in no way changes my situation. I have lost everything, except for this house and a small estate.”
“And the high regard and undiminished devotion of your country-men,” Kenji said, studying Shigeru intently. “You haven’t heard of ‘Loyalty to the Heron’?”
“What is it?” It was not uncommon for groups to spring up under such names: Narrow Paths of the Snake, Rage of the White Tiger, usually made up of young men who decided to use their intelligence and ability to challenge the accepted order and renew the world. Peasants and farmers banded together with low-ranking warriors to form leagues to defend their fields and farms and to put pressure on their landlords.
“It’s a supposedly secret group that’s spreading through the Middle Country; they swear to support you when you challenge your uncles, as they all hope you will.”
“I’m gratified for their support, but I can only disappoint them,” Shigeru said. “To challenge my uncles would bring civil war and destroy the Otori.”
“At the moment, perhaps. But you are not yet twenty years old, and you have patience.”
“You know a great deal about me,” Shigeru said, laughing as if the idea amused him.
“I hear about you,” Kenji said. “I was sorry to learn of your wife’s death. Do you plan to marry again?”
“No, never,” Shigeru replied abruptly. “I had hoped to have children, but I’ve realized their existence would only threaten my uncles further, and they would become hostages, if not in reality then to fate. I cannot bear any more losses. Besides, I have my brother: I must act like a father to him now.”
“Well, keep an eye on him. He is in even greater danger than you, as are all your family and anyone you care for. Iida will do anything he can to humiliate you, demonstrate his power over you, and cause you pain.” Kenji fell silent for a moment, then said quietly but deliberately, “Be very careful. Change your routines. Go nowhere alone. Always be armed.”
“Iida can ignore me,” Shigeru said, pretending indifference but noting the warning nonetheless. “I have given up the way of the sword.”
“Yet you still teach your brother and continue your own practice.”
“My brother needs to be kept occupied. I may be a farmer now, but Takeshi is a warrior’s son. He must have the education of a warrior before he comes of age. Then he can choose his own way.” Shigeru went on: “You seem to know all my activities. Do you have spies watching me all the time?”
“No, not at the moment,” Kenji replied. “I only hear what’s already spread on the wind. I keep my ears open, that’s all.” He sounded sincere, and Shigeru wanted to trust him, wanted to have this unusual and attractive man as his friend.
“What brings you to Hagi?” he said.
“I have relatives here. You probably know the brewery run by Muto Yuzuru.”
It was a little morsel of information, offered almost like a gift. Shigeru nodded. “Your family are involved in wine-making, then?”
“Runs in our veins instead of blood,” Kenji said. Shigeru poured him another cup, which he downed in one gulp. “I myself make soybean products—paste and sauce, in Yamagata. Most of our families are involved in one or the other.”
“And did you come to see me with any special purpose?”
“Not really. Just dropped in. I believe it is what friends do.” Kenji was grinning.