“Kuroda, or something like that.”
“Send him to me,” Shigeru said. “Bring wine and see no one disturbs us.”
The man came to the room, knelt before him, and greeted him. His voice was uneducated, the accent that of Yamagata. Chiyo was right: he looked like a groom, possibly once a foot soldier, with an old scar across his left forearm, but Shigeru knew he was from the Tribe, knew he would be tattooed beneath the clothes in the Kuroda fashion, as Shizuka had told him, could no doubt dissemble his features and appear in many different disguises.
“Muto Kenji sends you his greetings,” Kuroda said. “He has written to you.” He took the scroll from the breast of his jacket and gave it to Shigeru. Shigeru unrolled it and recognized the seal, the old way of writing “fox.”
“He has also told me everything he could find out, and I myself already had some details,” Kuroda said, his face and voice expressionless. “You may ask me any questions when you have finished reading.”
“Were you there?” Shigeru asked at once.
“I was in Yamagata. I knew of the incident as soon as it happened. But no one knew until some days later that the murdered man was Lord Takeshi. He was in traveling clothes: everyone else with him perished inside the house. It seems the Tohan surrounded it and set fire to it. Your brother escaped the flames but was cut down outside.”
Shigeru read the letter, his face muscles clenched, saving other questions for afterward, when he might be able to speak without weeping. When he had finished reading, silence fell on the room. The cicadas droned; the river ebbed.
Finally, Shigeru said calmly, detachedly, “Kenji writes that there was a fight earlier, outside an inn?”
“Lord Takeshi was provoked and insulted by a group of low-rank Tohan warriors. He was not drunk, but everyone else had been drinking heavily. The Tohan often act in this way in Yamagata: they swagger around like conquerors and always end up insulting the Otori and-forgive me-Lord Shigeru in particular. Lord Takeshi bore it as long as was humanly possible, but inevitably a fight broke out-six or seven of them against one. After Lord Takeshi had killed two of them, the rest ran away.” He was silent for a moment. “It seems he was an excellent swordsman.”
“Yes,” Shigeru said briefly, remembering the strength and grace of the young man.
“He returned to the house where he was staying. He was with a young woman, a very beautiful girl, only seventeen years old, a singer.”
“I suppose she is dead too?”
“Yes, and her entire family. The Tohan said they were Hidden, but everyone in Yamagata knows they were not.”
“The men were definitely Tohan?”
“They wore the triple oakleaf and came from Inuyama. They forbade anyone to move Lord Takeshi’s body-no one knew who he was, but a merchant from Hagi who was visiting Yamagata recognized him. He spread the word, went to the castle himself, and demanded the body be released to him. It has been very hot this summer. Lord Takeshi needed to be buried. The merchant took the body immediately to Terayama. The murderers, of course, were aghast: they had had no idea they had killed Lord Otori’s brother. They surrendered themselves to the lord at the castle, pleading only to be allowed to kill themselves honorably, but the lord advised them to return to Inuyama and inform Iida themselves.”
“Iida has punished them?”
“Far from it. He is reported to have received the news with pleasure.” Kuroda hesitated. “I don’t want to offend Lord Otori…”
“Tell me what he said.”
“His exact words were, ‘One less of those Otori to worry about. Too bad it wasn’t the brother.’ Far from punishing them, he rewarded them and now looks on them with favor.” Kuroda pressed his lips firmly together and stared at the floor.
Rage seemed to lick his gut with its molten tongue. He welcomed it, for it dried up grief and tears instantaneously. Rage would sustain him now, rage and his craving for revenge.
His uncles’ behavior did nothing to dull his rage. They expressed their profound regret for Takeshi’s death and for his mother’s, as well as their deep concern for his health. When Shigeru demanded to know what their response would be and when they would seek apologies and recompense from Iida, they were first evasive and finally adamant. No demands would be made. Takeshi’s death was an unfortunate accident. Lord Iida could not be held responsible.
“We do not need to remind you of your brother’s recklessness in the past. He has been involved in many brawls,” Shoichi said.
“When he was younger,” Shigeru said. “Most young men make similar mistakes.” Indeed, Masahiro’s oldest son, Yoshitomi, had only recently been involved in an ugly fight in the town in which two boys had died. “I believe Takeshi was settling down.”
“Maybe you are right,” Masahiro said with palpable insincerity. “Alas, we will never know. Let the dead rest in peace.”
“To tell you the truth, Shigeru,” Shoichi said, watching his nephew carefully, “negotiations are under way for a formal alliance with the Tohan. We would agree to establish legally the current borders and support the Tohan in their expansion into the West.”
“We should never make such an alliance,” Shigeru said immediately. “If the Tohan move into the West, they will encircle us completely. Next, they will absorb what’s left of the Middle Country. The Seishuu are our defense against that.”
“Iida plans to deal with the Seishuu-by marriage if possible and, if not, by war.” Masahiro laughed as if with pleasure at the prospect.
“Who in the West threatens war against him? He imagines enemies everywhere!”
“You have been ill. You are not completely informed about recent events,” Shoichi replied blandly.
“Lord Shigeru should think about marrying again,” Masahiro remarked, apparently changing the subject. “Since you have retired from the political stage, you should enjoy your simple life to the full. Let us find you a wife.”
“I have no desire to marry again,” Shigeru replied.
“My brother is right, though,” Shoichi said. “You must enjoy life and regain your health. Take a trip, look at some mountain scenery, visit a shrine, collect some more ancient tales.” He smiled at his brother, and Shigeru saw their mockery.
“I will go to Terayama to my brother’s grave.”
“It is a little early for that,” Shoichi said. “You will not go there. But you may travel to the East.”
47
Very well, Shigeru thought. I will obey my uncles. I will travel to the East.
He set out the next day, telling Chiyo and Ichiro he would visit the temple of Shokoji and spend a few days in retreat there, praying for the dead. For the first part of the journey he rode, taking Kyu and several retainers with him as companions. He left men and horses at the last small town before the border, Susamura, and went on alone on foot, like a pilgrim. He stayed for two nights at the temple, Shokoji, and on the third morning rose before dawn under the full moon and walked through the mountain pass, directly east, following the twin stars called the Cat’s Eyes until the sky paled and he was walking directly toward the rising sun. Its light fell across the browning grass of the plain; there was little sign now of the ten thousand who had died there, though occasionally bones of horses and men lay in the dust where foxes and wolves had been scavenging. He could not help recalling how he had ridden here with Kiyoshige, how the young horses had galloped eagerly across the plain-and the scenes of torture they had found on the other side in the border village. Now all this country belonged to the Tohan: would any Hidden have survived here?
He saw nobody on the plain, only pheasants and hares. He stopped to drink at the spring where he had rested with Kiyoshige, remembering how the tortured man Tomasu had come crawling toward them, wordlessly imploring them to help him. It was past midday by then and very hot. He rested for a while beneath the shade of the pines, trying to keep from his mind images of a boy with Takeshi’s face dying slowly above a fire, until the sense of urgency drove him on. He followed a fox track that went almost straight across the tawny surface toward the mountains that lay to the north of Chigawa. Mostly, he slept outside, only for the hours between moonset and dawn while it was too dark to see the path in front of him. He followed mountain tracks, frequently getting lost, having to retrace his steps, occasionally wondering if he would ever return to the Middle Country or if he would perish here in the impenetrable forest and no one would ever know what had become of him.