Kill the Shogun

CHAPTER 8

Kaze balanced the top on his blade and walked it toward the tip. Although he kept the top balanced on the sword, his attention was not on the spinning orb of painted wood. Instead, he was studying a building across the street from him.

It was a discreet building of dark wood and white plaster outer walls. It might have been an upper-class residence, except for the blue half-curtain hanging from the top of the door. The curtain had the kanji for “Little Flower” on it.

The building had no windows facing the street, and in the twenty minutes Kaze took to do his act with the tops, no one entered or left. It was midmorning, and the street was bustling with people conducting their shopping or business. After years of a solitary existence on the road, the swirl of people that made up a typical Edo street was strange to Kaze, but he willed away the distractions and focused his attention on the brothel.

Kaze was in Ningyo-cho, a compact community of Edo, not too far from the construction site of Edo-jo, tucked in the angle of the Sumida River and the Nihonbashi. It was filled with brothels, drinking places, theaters, and other entertainment establishments of various sorts. It also had a great number of the shops that gave the district its name: Doll Town. These dolls were the kind made of porcelain and cloth, and Kaze noted the irony of putting a brothel that apparently specialized in young children in a district where the parents of other, more fortunate, children purchased treasured dolls.

In theory, girls were to be left alone until they were considered women, and they could not be kept in sexual slavery at any age. In fact, there was no organization to see to the welfare of children. If an enterprise like the Little Flower Whorehouse remained low-key and didn’t cause problems for the authorities, it was allowed to function.

Kaze watched the Little Flower for almost an hour. It remained quiet, but that was no surprise because it was a business that operated primarily at night. He didn’t see any tradesmen entering to deliver food and drink, nor did he see anyone leave. Dressed as a street entertainer, he couldn’t just walk into the Little Flower to see if the Lady’s daughter was inside, so he decided to circle the block to see if there was an alley or side street that led to a back entrance.

As he made his way around the block of buildings, he entered a few narrow passages, but they turned out to be private alleys leading to particular businesses and not to the Little Flower. He decided to circle the block once more. Like most of Edo, Ningyo-cho had been hastily reconstructed after the great fire, so it was a confusing jumble of makeshift buildings and permanent structures. Kaze was confident of his ability to detect something as slight as the passage of a rabbit on a forest trail, but he wasn’t as certain of his ability to see all the possible crannies in and around city businesses, one of which could turn into a back entrance for the Little Flower.

When he was on the far side of the block, a man walked out of one of the businesses and stopped, looking at Kaze with surprise.

“Samurai-san!” the man exclaimed.

It was Goro, one of two peasants Kaze had met recently. The two men had helped Kaze transport a load of gold for a merchant to Kamakura. At the end of the journey, Kaze had given Goro, and his partner Hanzo, four gold coins, a magnificent reward.

“What are you doing here?” Kaze asked.

Goro puffed out his chest. “I am the proprietor of this business,” he said proudly.

Kaze looked at the curtain above the doorway. All it had was the word “Kabuki.” It was a word Kaze wasn’t familiar with. It seemed to be made up of three kanji: ka, which meant song; bu, which meant dance; and ki, which means skills. Song-dance-skills. It was peculiar.

“And what kind of business is this?” Kaze asked.

“It’s something totally new! You samurai have had Noh plays forever, but Kabuki was just started in Kyoto by Okuni. She was a shrine maiden who used to dance in a riverbed to great crowds. It’s going to really catch on here in Edo. Come in! Come in! We’re in the midst of rehearsals so you can see for yourself.”

Kaze entered the building, curious to see what the peasant had gotten himself into. He found himself in a lobby constructed of rough boards. Goro led Kaze through the small lobby and into the rest of the building. It was a large room. The floor was crisscrossed with low railings, dividing it into sections. Each section had low-quality tatami mats on the floor. At the back of the room was a raised platform that was reminiscent of the platforms used for Noh performances, or by shrine maidens for dancing. Behind the platform was a large curtain with a crudely painted pine tree on it, forming a backdrop.

It was a theater.

Flickering torches illuminated the room, and on the platform a man and a woman were standing. They wore garish kimonos. Kaze was used to the stately refinement of Noh, where the actors were all men. They did wear sumptuous kimonos in Noh, but their faces were covered by masks that indicated what part they were playing. Kaze was surprised by the lack of masks on these players, and he was also surprised at the presence of a woman onstage.

In front of the stage, Hanzo was busy wrapping omusubi, rice balls covered with dried seaweed, in broad, green leaves to protect them. Evidently, Hanzo was in charge of selling snacks to the audience.

“The samurai!” Hanzo said. He dropped everything and rushed to Kaze, genuine pleasure showing on his broad peasant’s face. He gave a deep bow, and Kaze returned the bow with a nod of his head.

“How did you get involved in this place?” Kaze asked Goro.

“After you gave us the money in Kamakura, we decided to come to Edo to have a good time. Hanzo and I argued about it, because he wanted to spend the money on a once-in-a-lifetime binge, and I wanted to start a business so we don’t have to return to our little farm. We decided to compromise. We came to Edo and had a small binge. Before we could complete our binge, we met the former owner of this theater, who offered to sell us this. Hanzo and I argued some more, but we eventually bought it, thanks to the gold you gave us in Kamakura.”

The part about Hanzo and Goro arguing was something Kaze could well believe. The two men argued like an old married couple. The two of them running a business was what Kaze found hard to believe.

“Have you ever run a theater before?”

“No, but the man who sold us the theater company said it’s a gold mine!”

“And why did the mine owner want to give it up?”

Goro looked puzzled. He looked at Hanzo, who simply scratched his head. Kaze sighed. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“Well, I guess business has been a bit slow. The actors get part of the money the people pay, and they’ve been grumbling about it. I guess many women used to be in the show, but they’re gone now. The only woman we have left is her,” Goro pointed with his chin at the young girl on the stage. “She used to help the other women get dressed, but she says she’s an actress.”

Kaze shared some of the samurai view of morality. It was his heritage. But after years of wandering and countless contacts with peasants and other commoners, he understood that the earthy values of the heimin also had a place in society. Still, Kaze didn’t quite approve of women onstage. He was sure that if this Kabuki got popular, the Tokugawa authorities would eventually ban women completely. As in Noh, the stage was the realm of men, even if they were playing the parts of women.

“In fact, that girl, Momoko, is helping us to build up business for the theater.”

“How?”

“We’re going to hand out leaflets to tell people about our big show. We had a woodblock cut with the information about our theater.”

“What did it say?”

Goro looked sheepish. “I don’t know. I can’t read. I just had a woodblock man put down what he thought would get people to the show.”

Kaze shook his head. Kaze wondered how many potential patrons couldn’t read, either. Goro and Hanzo didn’t seem prepared for any business venture.

The couple onstage seemed done with their rehearsals. The girl came off the stage and walked to Goro and Hanzo, apparently wanting to discuss something. In her tight kimono, she walked with the tiny, shuffling steps dictated by the wrapped cloth. Kaze judged her to be in her midteens. She used a wig and some makeup to look older, but her youthful features couldn’t be masked. She was not pretty. She had a tiny pug nose, a mouth that was too wide, and a short neck; the exact opposite of classical beauty, which called for a straight nose, a small mouth, and a long, swanlike neck.

As she walked up to the three men, her gaze fixed on Kaze. Her steps slowed, and her eyes widened. She reached the men and stood before Kaze, mute, obviously taken with him. Kaze knew that some women found him attractive, but the girl’s blatant fascination made him uncomfortable. He tried to ignore it.

“This is our friend,” Hanzo said.

“I am Saburo,” Kaze said. Goro and Hanzo looked surprised at the false name, but, for once, they kept their mouths shut.

“I am Momoko,” the girl said. Momoko gave a deep bow. Kaze merely nodded in return, as was proper, considering the difference in their ages and social class.

“Excuse me. I didn’t realize you had a guest,” Momoko said. It was obvious she did realize it and had come forward only to get a better look.

Momoko thought he was thirty or so. He was obviously a samurai, probably a ronin, but he wore only a single sword. It was the long katana sword. He did not have a wakizashi, the samurai’s “keeper of honor,” the sword used for both close-in fighting and to commit seppuku, when necessary. His intense eyes were crowned by expressive eyebrows that made a definite V shape, and he had high cheekbones and a firm jaw. His skin was brown from an extended time outdoors. His expression was serious, but there was a small smile on his lips that made Momoko think he had a sense of humor.

Momoko was used to actors, who tended to be self-involved and vain. This samurai seemed to have no pretensions, and she could tell that her close scrutiny of him made him uncomfortable, not puffed up with the pride men sometimes had when they were attractive to women.

“I, ah, I’ll come back later, when you’re done with your discussion.” She addressed this to Goro and Hanzo, but her eyes were fixed on Kaze. She turned and went back to the stage and the backstage area behind the curtain.

When she left, Kaze said, “Tell me, is there a back entrance to the theater?”

“No, Samurai-san.” Goro looked surprised. “Why do you ask?”

“I am interested in the Little Flower Whorehouse, which is on the opposite side of this block.”

“Are you, ah, a patron of that place, Samurai-san?” Goro was being discreet, at least for him.

“No,” Kaze said. “But I am interested in seeing how its building is laid out.”

Goro found the samurai’s interest in the architecture of a whorehouse peculiar, but he had already found this particular samurai different from others of his ilk, and he didn’t pry.

Have you found this Matsuyama Kaze yet?” Yoshida looked at his chief captain, Niiya, with a scowl.

“No, Lord, we have not. We are searching everywhere. If he is in Edo, we will find him.”

“Do you understand how important it is that we find him?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“It is a task that the Shogun himself has given me, Niiya. If I do it properly, other important tasks will follow. With Nakamura-san gone, there is no natural successor for the Shogun’s favor. Others understand this, and many daimyo are now trying to bring themselves to Ieyasu-sama’s attention. If I bring the Shogun the head of this Matsuyama Kaze, then my place in the new government will be assured. Do you understand what that means?”

“Yes, Yoshida-sama.”

“Good. Have each district captain talk to every gambler, merchant, and entertainer. This Matsuyama Kaze is staying someplace in Edo, and someone must know about it. Do it quietly, however. This man will be hard to kill, and it will be easier if we can do it with surprise. Spread the gold around. Don’t be stingy. Tell them that there is a thousand-ryo reward just for information about where he is. Tell them there’s a ten-thousand-ryo reward if they bring us his head.”

“Ten thousand ryo?” Niiya actually gasped.

“Yes. I have a golden opportunity to place myself in Ieyasu’s favor, and I won’t let mere money stand in the way of that opportunity. Someone will tell us where he is if the reward is big enough.”

“Yes, Yoshida-sama!”

Okubo’s hands trembled with excitement. He looked at the sword merchant. “If this is not genuine, it will go hard with you,” he said.

The merchant masked his feelings and simply continued unwrapping the object. He unfolded the cloth and revealed the daito, the extra long sword, twice as long as a regular katana. It was normally used from horseback, but it could also be used on foot by a man who had trained with it. “I assure you, Okubo-sama, that it is a genuine Muramasa blade. Finding any sword made by Muramasa is getting extremely difficult, and finding the long-bladed kind favored by you, great Lord, is almost impossible. As you know, the Tokugawas destroy Muramasa blades whenever they can. The blades made by Muramasa have a special enmity for the house of Tokugawa, even though Muramasa blades were made at least two hundred years ago. Ieyasu-sama’s grandfather, Kiyoyasu, was killed by a Muramasa blade. Both Ieyasu-sama and his father were hurt by Muramasa blades. And when Ieyasu ordered his son Nobuyasu to commit suicide because he suspected his loyalty, a Muramasa blade was used to remove his head.”

“I know of this history,” Okubo said curtly. Now it was his turn to mask his feelings. It was precisely this enmity toward the Tokugawas, not the fine craftsmanship, that caused Okubo to covet a blade made by the master swordsmith Muramasa.

The man took a piece of tissue and used it to hold the sword’s scabbard. Using another piece of tissue to hold the sword’s hilt, he slowly removed the sword a small way from the scabbard and moved it about, letting the light play off the polished surface of the blade. There was a protocol for a formal sword viewing, and the man followed it exactly, removing the blade slightly more and once again showing its beauty. He never completely removed the blade from the scabbard, because it would be an impolite gesture to have a totally naked blade in the presence of a daimyo.

Okubo reached out and took the sword from the merchant. He touched the sword’s hilt directly, not using the tissue. If he touched the actual blade, he would use a tissue, but for now he just wanted to get a feel for the blade and its weight.

“I can feel the power of this sword,” Okubo said in wonder, more to himself than to the merchant. He drew the blade out from its scabbard. There was no convention of politeness that prohibited a daimyo from showing a naked blade before a merchant. Only when in the presence of another daimyo or the Shogun himself was a daimyo prohibited from drawing a sword.

“I, ah …” The merchant looked uncomfortable.

“What is it?”

“Well, Okubo-sama, you have already noted the unusual power found within Muramasa blades. They hunger for blood. But, great Lord, I would not feel comfortable unless I warned you that this power can have an effect on the owner of the blade, as well as the blade’s victims. Muramasa blades have been known to drive their owners to rash action. They have been the ruin of more than one owner, and some swear they are unlucky. They have even been known to, ah, drive owners to madness.”

Noting the look on Okubo’s face, the merchant hastily added, “I have no fears selling this blade to a man of such exceptional strength and character as yourself, of course.”

Okubo returned the sword to its scabbard. “My head of household will pay you,” Okubo said.

“Thank you, Okubo-sama! Thank you.” The merchant placed his hands on the tatami mat and bowed until his head touched the mat. Okubo waved the merchant away. When the man left the room, Okubo took the sword out of its scabbard and placed it before him. The polished blade gleamed with a cold malevolence. He stared at the long ribbon of steel. He could feel the hate and death radiating off the surface, filling the room with insanity. With such a blade, one could bring to closure a lifetime of enmity. One could aspire to any height, achieve any aim. One could even become Shogun.

Okubo shook his head, as if recovering from a dream. Perhaps he was already insane, he thought, daring to think thoughts that were forbidden and deadly.

Honda was also staring at something, but in this case he felt no power emanating from it. It was a simple, earthenware teacup filled with the frothy, bitter brew that resulted when tea was prepared in the formal way.

“Is something wrong, Honda-sama?”

Honda looked sharply at his companion, the man who had prepared the tea with nonchalant elegance. He was too sensitive to the moods of the people around him to make a man like Honda feel really safe in his presence.

“No, nothing,” Honda said gruffly.

But, of course, there was something wrong. What he was engaged in went against his entire life. He was a rough warrior, and offering his life and services to the Tokugawas was the twin star that guided his actions. Now he was doing something that made him feel embarrassed and ashamed. Yet, with the changing order of Japan, he believed that he had to do this, and that he would have to change, too.

The Gods knew that Ieyasu-sama had changed. Honda was with Ieyasu almost from the beginning, when Ieyasu was a youth scratching to retain control of his own fief, buffeted by more powerful daimyo on all sides of him. Initially, Ieyasu had been cautious to a fault. They even invented a proverb about Ieyasu, “tapping on a stone bridge,” to show his extreme caution in all things. He knew his limitations and refused to exceed them.

Then, as his fortunes changed, his attitude changed, also. Now it seemed like he accepted the awesome title of Shogun as something owed him for his years of struggle, scheming, and planning. But Honda knew the life of a man, any man, could be ended with a sword stroke, so all things of this earth were ephemeral. It didn’t even take a sword stroke; Ieyasu had almost been assassinated by an unseen gunman sitting in a fire tower. True, there was no chivalry in such a killing, but Ieyasu would be just as dead if the bullet hit him, regardless of the conventions of bushido, just as Nakamura was dead. Honda snorted.

“Did you say something, Honda-sama?”

Honda looked up from his tea. He held the cup in two hands, one hand on the bottom, the other cupping the side, in the proper fashion. Despite his present circumstances, he wanted to show he was not a complete barbarian. “No,” Honda said. He put his teacup down. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get on with it.”