Midori looked as if she had more questions, but she took the children away. Sano’s daughter Akiko was with them. Entering his cluttered room, Hirata found Sano kneeling on the floor. Sano’s expression was a mixture of anger, worry, and distrust. He said, “Where have you been?”
Hirata knelt opposite Sano. He owed Sano an honest explanation even if it had to be incomplete. “With my friends Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi.”
“That’s what I thought.” Sano spoke with displeasure. “I don’t suppose you did any investigation on Priest Ryuko or Minister Ogyu.”
“I can do it now,” Hirata said, eager to make up for his absence.
“Never mind,” Sano said coldly. “I’ve already taken care of it myself. What were you and your friends doing?”
A lifetime of following the samurai code of obedience compelled Hirata to answer. Fourteen years’ friendship with Sano required him to tell the truth. Tahara’s threat bound him to silence. “I can’t tell you.”
A frown deepened all the emotions on Sano’s face. “Can’t or won’t?”
Hirata was mute. He’d never felt so at odds with himself, so helpless, or so miserable.
After a long, tense pause, Sano said, “You’ve changed since you met those men.” He shifted position as if he were physically uncomfortable. “There’s something wrong, and it has to do with them. Have they gotten you in some kind of trouble?”
You can’t imagine, Hirata thought glumly.
Sano leaned forward, his coldness warming to apprehension. “If you are in trouble, I wish you would tell me what it is so that I can help you.”
That Sano could be so generous after Hirata had let him down! He thought yearningly of the times he and Sano had faced danger together and prevailed despite odds that had seemed insurmountable. But he must not pit Sano against Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi.
“I can handle it,” Hirata said.
A sigh of exasperation gusted from Sano. He raised his empty hands, then let them fall onto his thighs with a loud clap. “If that’s the way you want it, then we need to come to an understanding.” His manner turned so ominous that Hirata felt the air between them crackle, as if lightning were about to strike. Yet he could also see that Sano hated the words he spoke next.
“I’ve been patient with your absences and your secrecy. I’ve made allowances for you that I wouldn’t make for any of my other retainers.” Sano moved again; his upper body twitched inside his clothes. “But you’ve been taking unfair advantage, and I’ve let you get away with it for too long. It has to stop. I’m ordering you to tell me what’s going on. And if you refuse, then we won’t be able to work together anymore.”
This was the moment Hirata had feared since he joined the secret society. His commitment to them had collided with his loyalty to Sano; he’d compromised the sacred bond between samurai and master, and there was only one way to mend it. The knowledge brought terror but also relief. Hirata must confess and hope that he could avert the consequences.
Before he could speak, Sano frowned, glanced down at his waist, and felt under his sash. He pulled out a small object whose edges had apparently been irritating him and causing his restless movements. It was a wooden prayer tag on a string. Hirata inhaled a sharp breath. He recognized the red sword drawn on the tag. Cold, nauseating horror gripped his stomach.
Sano looked up. Puzzled by the alarm he saw on Hirata’s face, he said, “It’s just a prayer tag. My daughter must have found it and slipped it under my sash, as a joke.”
But Hirata knew that Tahara had planted the tag on Sano, to demonstrate that he could get close enough to kill Sano whenever he wanted. Tahara had somehow arranged for Sano to discover the tag when Hirata was present, as a warning.
Sano tossed the tag on the floor. It landed with the picture of the red sword facing up. “Which will it be? Are you going to tell me, or do we part company?”
Hirata felt an anguish as painful as if his innards were being torn, by Sano in one direction, by the secret society in the other. “I can’t tell you.” He forced the words past the tears swelling in his throat.
Resignation settled over Sano; his eyes darkened with disappointment through which a spark of anger glinted. “Very well, then.”
“Does this mean you’re-?” Hirata couldn’t bear to ask whether Sano was casting him out to become a r o nin, a masterless samurai. The thought of the disgrace, the loss of everything that mattered, was too terrible.
“Not yet,” Sano said. Hirata could see that he was reluctant to impose such a harsh punishment, even though he had every right as well as the responsibility to uphold the samurai code of honor. “I’m giving you one last chance to settle whatever business you have with these men. Take a leave of absence for as long as you need. If you can’t settle it and return your full attention to your duties…” Sano paused, then spoke with resolve as well as misgivings. “Your leave of absence will have to become permanent.”
26
Reiko climbed the steep, crumbling steps to the Yushima Seid o while her palanquin, bearers, and guards waited below. She carried a gift-wrapped package and a lacquer scroll container. Reaching the portals, she heard children’s tinkling laughter. In a courtyard surrounded by fallen buildings, a woman, a boy, and a girl held hands, dancing in a circle on the snow, as the children laughed and the woman chanted a song. The children looked to be seven or eight years old. The woman, Lady Ogyu, was in her twenties, thin and tall and sinewy in her padded, steel-blue silk coat. Long, lank black hair spilled from the scarf wrapped around her head. Her face was too rawboned for prettiness, but smiles carved dimples into her cheeks as she swung her children’s hands. Reiko smiled too.
Lady Ogyu saw Reiko. She stopped chanting and dancing; she gathered her children close. Her face had a naturally sad cast-eyes, brows, and mouth downturned.
“Good day, Lady Ogyu.” Reiko walked toward the family.
“Who are you?” Lady Ogyu looked as scared as if Reiko were a bandit. She pushed the boy and girl behind her. They clung to her skirts and peered out at Reiko, solemn and silent.
“I’m sorry for frightening you,” Reiko said. “I’ve come to visit. My name is Reiko.”
Lady Ogyu backed away, drawing the children with her. “Have we ever met?”
“No, but we have a relative in common. My grandmother is your great-aunt by marriage.”
Suspicion deepened the fear on Lady Ogyu’s face. She reminded Reiko of a deer, to whom all humans were hunters. The children’s eyes were huge; their lips trembled. Reiko wished she could leave them in peace, but she had to help Sano solve the crime, prevent a war, and protect her own family.
“Grandmother asked me to come and see you because she’s concerned about you. I have a letter from her.” Reiko proffered the scroll container to Lady Ogyu, who made no move to accept it. Reiko took out the letter and held it out to Lady Ogyu.
Lady Ogyu snatched the letter from Reiko’s hand, leery of even the briefest contact. As she read, her eyes darted back and forth between the letter and Reiko. Finished, she hesitated.
Reiko smiled at the children, said, “I’ve brought you something,” and offered them the package.
Tempted by the pretty red wrapping, they looked at their mother. She reluctantly nodded. The boy opened the package. When he and his sister saw the sweet-bean cakes inside, their eyes lit up. They began stuffing cakes in their mouths. They probably hadn’t eaten sweets since the earthquake. Reiko felt lucky that her cooks had saved some.
“Come inside,” Lady Ogyu said grudgingly. She sidled toward one of three tents pitched in the courtyard and held up the flap for Reiko to enter. “Play outside,” she told the children. “Don’t go too far.”
Daylight shining through the tent illuminated the small interior. Two layers of tatami padded the ground. Despite the burning charcoal brazier, it was so cold that Reiko hated to remove her shoes. Toys were jumbled in a corner-dolls, miniature swords, balls, and wooden soldiers. Folded clothes and bedding piled along the walls provided extra insulation. Lady Ogyu picked two cushions from a stack and tossed them on the floor. She handed Reiko a quilt and wrapped another around her shoulders. They knelt on the cushions. Lady Ogyu offered refreshments. Reiko demurred, was pressed, and finally accepted. Lady Ogyu lifted a water jug that sat on the brazier, sloshed water into a teapot, and threw in some loose tea from a jar. She kept her gaze averted from Reiko. They sat in silence as the tea steeped. Lady Ogyu poured two bowls, handed one to Reiko. Reiko sipped weak, lukewarm tea. Lady Ogyu made no attempt at conversation. Rarely had Reiko seen a less gracious hostess; but she was no friend to this woman.