Heaven's Net Is Wide

42

A couple of weeks later, just before the onset of winter, Shigeru was returning home on a bitterly cold day when he became aware that someone was following him. He turned once and saw a figure hidden by a hat and cape: it was impossible to tell if it was male or female, though it was of no great height. He walked faster, his hand prepared to go to his sword. The road was frozen solid and icy underfoot. He looked almost unconsciously for a piece of firmer ground on which to make a stand if he had to, but when he turned again, his follower had vanished-though he had the feeling he was still there, unseen: he fancied he could hear the slightest footfall, the merest breath.

“Is that you, Kenji?” he demanded, for sometimes the Fox played similar tricks on him, but there was no response. The wind blew more coldly; night was falling. As he turned to hurry home, he felt someone pass by him and caught the slight scent of a woman.

“Muto Shizuka!” he said. “I know it is you. Show yourself to me.”

There was no reply. He said more angrily, “Show yourself!”

Two men came around the corner, pushing a barrow laden with chestnuts. They stared at Shigeru in amazement.

“Lord Otori! What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “Nothing’s wrong. I am on my way home.”

They will think I’ve gone mad. “Not only the farmer but the crazy farmer,” he muttered as he came to the gate of his mother’s house, certain that the two would go straight to the nearest inn and start gossiping about him.

The dogs got up, wagging their tails at the sight of him. “Has anyone come in?” he called to the guards.

“No one, lord,” one replied.

Chiyo said the same when she came out to welcome him. He walked into every room: there was no one there. Yet he was sure he could still smell the faint unfamiliar scent. He bathed and ate distractedly, uncomfortably aware of his vulnerability to the Tribe. There might be poison in his food; a knife might suddenly come out of the air: a mouthful of needles might be spat out with supernatural force and speed, directed at the eye. He would die almost without knowing it.

He had removed his sword when entering the house. Now he called to Chiyo to bring it to him; he laid it on the floor next to him and placed it in his sash when, after the meal, he went to the room where he usually spent the evening reading and writing. Ichiro had retired early, suffering from a heavy cold. Chiyo had already placed two braziers in the room, but the air was still chilly enough for him to see his own breath.

And someone else’s. A tiny, hardly perceptible cloud hung at knee level.

“Muto,” he said, and drew his sword.

She came out of nowhere: one moment the room was empty; the air shimmered; the next moment she knelt on the floor in front of him. Though he had seen Kenji do this, it still made him dizzy, as though reality itself were dislodged. He took a deep breath.

“Lord Otori.” She lowered her brow to the ground and remained there, her hair spilling over her face, revealing her slender neck.

If he had met her in the street or in the forest, if she had been standing, walking-in any position but this-he would have fought with her and killed her to punish her for her duplicity and treachery. But he had never killed a woman or an unarmed man-though she was hardly an ordinary woman, she seemed to be unarmed; furthermore, the idea of shedding blood within his own house repelled him. And she had kindled his curiosity: now he had seen with his own eyes what his father had seen, the Tribe woman who could disappear and reappear at will. Why had she come to him like this, putting herself, it seemed, in his power? And what might he learn from her?

He sat cross-legged, placing the sword next to him. “Sit up,” he said. “Why are you here?”

“There are many things I want to talk to you about,” she replied as she raised herself, looking directly at him. “I came here because your house is safe: there are no spies here, no members of the Tribe. Your household are very loyal to you-as is most of Hagi.”

“Did your uncle send you?” he asked.

She nodded. “Part of my commission is from him. I will tell you his news first. There’s been an unfortunate development that he thought you should know about. There was an attempt to assassinate Iida Sadamu two weeks ago.”

“What happened?” Shigeru said. “It failed, presumably. Who was behind it?”

“You had nothing to do with it?”

“Am I under suspicion?”

“The would-be assassin was from your wife’s family, the Yanagi.”

Shigeru remembered the madman who had ridden out of the forest: he knew at once it must be the same man.

“He was apparently seeking to avenge the annihilation of the clan,” Shizuka continued. “My uncle and I believe he was acting individually, out of rage and despair. It was a clumsy attempt: he tried to ambush Iida on the road when he was returning to Inuyama for the winter. He never got near him. He was taken alive and tortured for five days, but he said little except that he was the last of the Yanagi. He was a warrior, but Iida declared him stripped of all privileges: he died finally on the castle wall. Iida immediately assumed he was in your service. It has reawakened all his suspicions. He will demand some sort of retribution from the Otori.”

“I am in no way involved,” Shigeru exclaimed, appalled at the implications of this rash act of which he had had no knowledge. “How can I be held responsible?”

“Many people would like to assassinate Iida; he will always see your hand behind it. And besides, something more implicates you. Kitano Masaji reported that the same man had spoken to you as you left Misumi. He said you must have given him some secret message or sign.”

“I thought he was a lunatic and tried to prevent Kitano from killing him!”

“A grave mistake. He eluded Kitano’s men and went straight to the high road between Kushimoto and Inuyama to attack Iida. My uncle’s advice is to lie very low. Don’t leave the Middle Country. Stay in Hagi if possible.”

“I only travel for agricultural research and religious duties,” Shigeru said. “And both must be laid aside during the winter.” He gestured at the writing materials and the boxes of scrolls that filled the room. “I have plenty with which to occupy myself until spring comes.” He gave her his openhearted smile, but when he spoke again, his voice was bitter. “You may tell your uncle that-and Iida, of course.”

She said, “You are still angry with me. I must also talk about this. I was acting on the orders of my family when I betrayed you and the man I love, the father of my sons. From the Tribe’s point of view, I was doing my duty. It is not the worst thing I have done at their command. Yet I am deeply ashamed of it, and I ask you to forgive me.”

“How can I forgive you?” he replied, trying to control his anger. “The betrayal and death of my father, my best friend, thousands of my men; the loss of my position-and after you swore to Arai Daiichi and to me that we could trust you.”

Her face was white, her eyes opaque. “Believe me, the dead haunt me. That is why I want to make amends.”

“You must take me for a fool. Am I supposed to trust you again and express my forgiveness to ease your pangs of conscience? For what purpose? I have retired from politics; I have no interest in anything other than farming my estate and pursuing my spiritual duties. What is past is past. Your remorse cannot undo the battle or bring back the dead.”

“I will not defend myself against your contempt and distrust, for I deserve both. I just ask you to see things from the point of view of a woman from the Tribe who now wants to help you.”

“I know you are a consummate actor,” he said. “You outdo yourself in this performance.” He was on the point of ordering her to leave, of calling the guards and having her thrown out, having them put her to death.

She held out her hands to him, palms upward. He saw the unusual lines that ran straight across the hand as though cutting it in half. He stared at them, trying to remember… something his father had said, about the Kikuta woman.

“Lord Otori, how can I convince you to trust me?”

He raised his eyes from her hands to her face. It was impossible to tell if she was sincere or not. He said nothing for a few moments, making an effort to curb his anger, trying to assess the dangers and the advantages to him in this sudden new development, thinking with brief sorrow of the young Yanagi man, his pain, his humiliation. He turned away from her and said abruptly, “What do the lines on your hands signify?”

She glanced down at them. “Some of us who have Kikuta blood carry this mark. It is supposed to indicate high skills. My uncle has told you something of these things?”

“If I wanted to know more about the Kikuta family, would you be able to help me?” he said, turning back to her.

She raised her eyes again to his. “I will tell you anything you want to know.”

His distrust returned. “Are you sure you are allowed to?”

“In this I am acting for myself. I am transferring my allegiance from the Tribe to Lord Otori.”

“Why?” He did not believe her.

“I want to make amends for the past. I’ve seen the cruelty of the Tohan at work. In the Tribe we are brought up not to care about the differences of right and wrong, nobility and baseness. We have other concerns: our own survival, our own accumulation of power and wealth. I have never been allowed to choose for myself; I have always done what I was told. Obedience is the character trait most highly valued by the Tribe. But since the birth of my sons, I have felt differently. Something happened… I can’t tell you exactly what it was, but it shocked me deeply. It made me realize I would rather my sons lived in Lord Otori’s world-not Iida Sadamu’s.”

“Very touching! And quite unrealistic, since my world has vanished forever.”

“If you truly believed that, you would be dead,” she said quietly. “The fact that you continue living tells me that your world can be restored, and that it is your hope. Arai, too, still hopes for it. Let us work together for this purpose.”

He glanced at her, saw her eyes were still fixed on his face, and then looked away. The night was growing colder; he could feel the icy air on his cheeks. He moved a little closer to the brazier.

“I swear on the lives of my sons,” she said. “I’ve come to you not on the orders of the Tribe, or of Iida, or your uncles or anyone else. Well, Kenji told me to come, but he does not know why I was glad to obey him.”When he still said nothing, she went on. “Arai is not alone among the Seishuu in hoping to see Iida overthrown. Lady Maruyama must also desire it. Especially since Iida has demanded her daughter be sent to Inuyama as a hostage next year.”

“Is Lady Maruyama also under suspicion?”

“Less than you. But she was also at Misumi. You spoke to her, perhaps in some secret language, Kitano thinks. And Iida hopes to control her domain either by marriage or by force. He is regrouping his armies, but he will seize on any pretext of disloyalty to act.”

Shigeru sighed deeply. “Are you trying to tell me something about Lady Maruyama?”

“Lord Otori, the groom, Bunta, reports to me. Only to me. This is proof, if you like, of my loyalty to you. Bunta told me of your first meeting and the next one.”

It was what he had feared all along. They had been watched: the Tribe knew, Iida knew. He could not speak; his muscles and blood were frozen.

“I have never spoken of it until now,” Shizuka went on. “No one else knows.” She added after a moment, “You should not meet again. It has become extremely dangerous. Because Bunta reports only to me, I have been able to keep it secret, but I cannot do that much longer. You should not even write to each other, once Lady Maruyama’s daughter is a hostage in Inuyama.”

He believed now that she was telling the truth and saw suddenly how much he needed someone like her, with all her Tribe skills, her long-standing connection with Arai, her relationship to Muto Kenji. Her appearance was the unexpected move that, as in Go, opened up the whole game.

“There are things I would like to find out about the Kikuta.” He drew the writing table toward him and took up the inkstone, then said, “It needs water. Wait here. I’ll fetch us some wine. And do you want something to eat?”

She shook her head. He stood and went to the door, slid it open, and walked through the next room toward the kitchen. Chiyo was nodding off beside the hearth. He told her to heat some wine and then go to bed.

She was full of apologies. “Lord Otori has a visitor? I did not know.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I will take the wine myself.”

Understanding leaped into her eyes. “Your visitor is a woman? Excellent, excellent. You won’t be disturbed, I’ll make sure of it!”

He did not correct her but smiled to himself as he returned, carrying the small ceramic flask and cups.

“I’m afraid Chiyo thinks you have come for some amatory purpose,” he said, setting the tray on the floor.

Shizuka filled his cup and then he filled hers. “In another life, maybe. There are many kinds of love,” she said almost flirtatiously. “Let us drink to the love of friendship.”

He could not help but reflect on the strangeness of his life, that he should be sitting with this woman from the Tribe and pledging friendship with her. The wine was warm and fragrant, sending its cheerful message coursing through his body.

He poured the water into the fish-shaped dropper and prepared the ink. Then he took up the brush. “Tell me about the Tribe.”

She took a deep breath. “You must never utter a word of this to anyone. If the Tribe ever find out, they will kill me. I know my uncle has become a friend of yours. He, above all, must never know what I am doing.”

“You must realize that I can keep secrets,” Shigeru replied.

“I believe you to be the most devious person I know, outside the Tribe,” Shizuka said, laughing and adding quickly, “It is a compliment!”

He poured more wine. It had cooled rapidly.

“We work in groups and networks,” she said as he wrote down the details. “Each member only communicates with his or her senior in the hierarchy-they are not allowed to speak of anything important among themselves. Our children are trained in this. It is second nature to us. Information flows only one way-upward to the Master of the family.”

“Kikuta and Muto?”

“They are the leading families, supposedly equal, but the Kikuta are currently more powerful. I am from both families. My father was Muto-he passed away when I was a child-and my mother Kikuta.”

“Your mother was Kikuta? In what year was she born?”

“She turns forty this year.”

Forty years ago-could she have been his father’s child? Only if either Shigemori or Shizuka had got the years wrong. It was entirely possible. Most people had no very clear idea when they were born-names were frequently changed, dates altered.

“I can bring you copies of the genealogies,” Shizuka said. “Blood ties are very important to the Tribe. We like to keep careful records of who marries whom and what skills each union produces in its offspring. Why are you particularly interested in the Kikuta?”

“I believe I may have a half brother among them,” he said, and for the first time shared his father’s secret with another person.

“It’s extraordinary,” she said when he had finished. “I have never heard even a rumor of this.”

“So you do not think there was a child born?”

“If there was, its mother must have successfully hidden the fact that the father was not from the Tribe.”

“Is it something you can find out? Without revealing it to anyone else?”

“I will try.” She smiled. “It’s uncanny almost, that you should have a relative among the Kikuta!”

“And Bunta-is he a relation of yours?”

“No. He is from the Imai family. Most of the Imai men work as grooms and servants, as do the Kudo. The fifth family, the Kuroda, are somewhere in the middle. They have many of the special skills of the Tribe-I’m sure Kenji has demonstrated these to you-and a characteristic practicality that makes them superb assassins. The most sought-after at the moment is Kuroda Shintaro, who currently is employed by the Tohan.”

“Someone tried to assassinate me three years ago,” Shigeru said. “Were they from the Tribe?”

“One was. The others were Tohan, disguised as masterless warriors. In fact, Iida paid the Kikuta family highly for this attempt and was furious when it failed. Since then, Kenji has ordered the Muto to leave you alone: he has some influence with the other families but not with the Kikuta.”

“Why has Kenji taken me under his wing? Sometimes I feel as if I am his tamed animal.”

Shizuka smiled. “There is an element of that. Kenji is an unusual person-supremely talented but a loner. He will become the Muto Master very soon. He is virtually head of the family already, for no one dares cross him. Your friendship intrigues and flatters him. He considers that you belong to him; he says he saved your life, though he has never told me the full story. He admires you as much as he admires anyone. I believe he is genuinely fond of you. But I must warn you, his first loyalty will always be to the Muto family and to the Tribe.”

“Can you deliver messages to Maruyama?”

“I could take one for you now, but as I said before, you and Lady Maruyama should not attempt to write to each other again.”

“This assassination attempt is a disaster for us,” he said, allowing himself now to express his feelings. “We had hoped to seek permission to marry next year.”

“Do not even consider it,” Shizuka said. “It will enrage Iida and arouse his suspicions further.”

He seemed to have gained one advantage only to lose what he most desired, taken one step forward only to be thrown back two. “What can I write?” he said. “All I can say is farewell forever.”

“Don’t despair,” she said. “Continue to be patient. I know it is your greatest strength. Iida will be overthrown; we will continue our struggle against him.”

“It’s getting late. Where will you sleep tonight?”

“I will go to the Muto house, where the brewery is.”

“Come here tomorrow. I will have a letter ready for you.”

“Lord Otori.”

They walked out together into the silent garden. Starlight glimmered faintly on the rocks around the pools, where ice was already forming. He was going to call for the guards to open the gates, but she forestalled him. She motioned him to be silent and leaped into the air, vanishing on the tiled roof of the wall.

He spent most of the night writing to Naomi, telling her what had transpired with Muto Shizuka, expressing his sorrow at her daughter’s fate and his deep love for her, warning her that it might be years before he was able to write again, telling her on no account to write to him. He ended echoing Shizuka’s words: Do not despair. We must be patient.

A week later snow began to fall heavily, to Shigeru’s relief, for he had feared that after the assassination attempt Iida would renew his demands for Takeshi to be sent to Inuyama. Now this would be put off until spring at least. It did not matter that the snow also closed the roads to messengers, for he knew he would not hear from Naomi again.

IN THE FOURTH MONTH of the following year, news came of Mori Yusuke’s death on the mainland. It was brought by a ship’s captain, who also delivered Yusuke’s last gift to Shigeru: a stallion from the steppes of the East. The horse arrived thin and dispirited, exhausted from the journey; however, Shigeru and Takeshi both saw something in it, and Takeshi made arrangements for it to be well fed. When it had recovered some of its energy, he put it out in the water meadows with the mares. Despite its thinness, it was well put together, taller and longer of leg than the Otori horses, with flowing tail and long mane, once the tangles had been unknotted. The old stallion had died the previous winter, and the new one quickly took the mares as his herd, nipping at them, bossing them, getting all of them with foal. Shigeru entrusted the handling of the horses to Takeshi. The only surviving son of the horsebreaker’s family, Hiroki, was occupied with his shrine duties, but he often discussed horses with Takeshi, for he had still retained the family interest in them and he and Takeshi were the same age. It was ten years since the stone fight in which Hiroki’s older brother, Yuta, had died, ten years since Hiroki had been dedicated to the shrine of the river god.

When the foals were born the following spring, one of them promised to be the pale gray black-maned sort so prized by the Otori. Takeshi named it Raku. Another was a black very like Shigeru’s stallions Karasu and Kyu. The third was a less handsome dull-colored bay, who turned out to be the most intelligent and tractable horse Takeshi had ever known.