The Cloud Pavilion

29

Masahiro meant to be a good boy.

While he ate his breakfast and studied with his tutor, he was serious and obedient. He was careful not to pout while Father's soldiers stood around guarding him as if he were a prisoner in jail. He wanted to convince Father and Mother that he'd learned his lesson, and they would surely ask his tutor and his guards whether he'd behaved himself. But now, as his tutor pointed out mistakes in the arithmetic test he'd just finished, Masahiro itched with frustration.

How he hated being cooped up inside the house! He wished Toda hadn't caught him yesterday. He wished that when he'd spied on Yanagisawa and the ladies he'd learned something so important that Father and Mother would have forgiven him. If only he could help them instead of staying home and doing nothing!

The arithmetic lesson ended. His teacher departed. Masahiro fidgeted while he waited for his reading tutor. The soldier on guard duty this morning was a young samurai named Hayashi, who looked as bored and restless as Masahiro was.

"How about if we play outside for a little while?" Hayashi suggested. "I won't tell your parents."

"All right," Masahiro said.

The words escaped before he could stop them. He couldn't take them back, could he? Because he didn't want to disappoint Hayashi. That was what Masahiro told himself as he followed Hayashi out the door.

The sky was gray and the day warm and humid. Masahiro ran across the garden, enjoying the squishy wetness of the grass that soaked his socks through his sandals. He batted at the low foliage on the trees and laughed as water droplets showered onto him. A teenaged garden boy stood on a ladder propped against the wall. He'd removed his short blue kimono and his floppy straw hat, which lay on a rock near the ladder. Clad only in a loincloth, he pruned the pine trees. Hayashi threw a ball to Masahiro. As they played catch, two young, pretty maids came out of the house, batted their eyes at Hayashi, and giggled. Hayashi dropped the ball and went over to talk to them. Masahiro was left alone. He watched the garden boy climb down the ladder and go off on some errand, leaving the ladder and his discarded clothes. Masahiro's heartbeat quickened; he moved toward the ladder.

Wouldn't it be fun to climb up so high?

First Masahiro picked up the clothes and wadded them under his arm. He didn't stop to think why. He mounted the ladder. The pungent, sharp-needled boughs of the pine tree concealed him from anyone below. When he reached the top rung of the ladder, he couldn't see over the wall because he was too short. He set the garden boy's clothes on the wall. While he grabbed the top of the wall in both hands and scrambled his way up, he heard Hayashi chatting with the maids. His feet bumped the ladder, which fell away from him and hit the ground with a soft thud. Horror filled Masahiro as he crouched atop the narrow wall and wondered how he was going to get back down.

"Masahiro! Where are you?" Hayashi called.

Startled, Masahiro lost his balance. He tried to steady himself, but his scrabbling hands found the garden boy's clothes instead of the wall's solid stone. His fingers slipped. He toppled off the wall and landed on his back in a pile of sand on the other side. The hat and kimono plopped onto his face. Masahiro lay, the breath knocked out of him, stunned.

He cautiously wiggled his body. Although the fall had jarred every bone in him, the sand had cushioned his landing, and nothing seemed broken. He flung the clothes off his face, looked up at the wall and the overhanging pine boughs. He heard Hayashi on the other side, saying, "Where did he go? Chamberlain Sano will kill me!"

Dread flooded Masahiro. When Father hears about this, he'll kill me, too. Father would never believe that he hadn't meant to climb over the wall, that he'd fallen off by accident.

Masahiro scrambled to his feet. He was in a passage that divided the mansion's grounds from the rest of the estate. The path between two stone walls had been dug up. The passage was empty except for the sand pile, a stack of new paving stones, and a wheelbarrow. Luckily for Masahiro, the workers had taken a break, or they'd have caught him. But he would be punished no matter what he did next.

Father and Mother would never let him outside again until he was grown up.

Then Masahiro saw a bright spot amid his troubles. Now that he'd escaped, he had another chance to be a detective. What did he have to lose?

He snatched up the garden boy's clothes, which he hadn't meant to steal but would certainly come in handy. Then he ran down the passage before Hayashi could figure out what had happened and come after him. Masahiro would make the most of his freedom. This time he would discover something so good that Father and Mother would be glad he'd broken the rules and he wouldn't feel guilty about his disobedience.

Masahiro didn't let himself think that he must have meant to escape all along.

Accompanied by his two top retainers, Hirata glanced over his shoulder as they rode through Kuramae-the area dubbed "In Front of the Shogun's Store houses," near the Sumida River. He thought he felt the now-familiar presence, but he wasn't sure.

He'd lain awake for most of the night, his senses straining to detect the slightest hint of his unknown foe. Several times he'd sat up in bed, his heart pounding. But nothing happened except that Midori had grown tired of being awakened. She'd flounced off to sleep in another room, telling Hirata that he was imagining things.

Maybe he had been.

Maybe he still was.

Kuramae was known for its many shops, and particularly for toys. Hirata and his men steered their horses around pedestrians in streets devoted to dolls, kites, fireworks, and Dagashiya-san-"cheap-sweet shops"-that sold candy and inexpensive trinkets. Wandering peddlers hawked kokeshi dolls, and blowfish whistles. Hirata didn't think of buying presents to surprise his children, as he might have another time. His mind manufactured threats where none existed. Every casual glance from a stranger, every movement or flare of emotion within the crowds, wound his nerves tighter.

He knew that was exactly what his enemy wanted.

The mind was a warrior's most formidable weapon. When it was strong and steady, it could win battles against opponents with better combat skills. An expert martial artist could influence the mind of his opponent by instilling such fear that the opponent became weak, helpless, and easily defeated. Hirata had often used this strategy, but now he was its target. He felt his confidence draining away, his spirit weakening. Although he usually liked to travel alone, today he'd brought Detectives Inoue and Arai. Their company didn't bring him a sense of security, however; indeed, his wish for protection made him feel more vulnerable.

He and the detectives turned onto Edo Street, the main road that led to the northern highway. On the right, between the road and the river, stood the shogun's rice ware houses. On the left side of the road were teahouses operated by fudasashi, merchants who delivered the rice to the shogun's retainers for a commission, then bought the excess and sold it at a profit. They also loaned money, another business that made them hugely wealthy.

Hirata dismounted outside the biggest teahouse, which bore the name "Ogita" carved on a discreet wooden placard by the door. Inside, male voices shouted numbers. Hirata and his men entered a room where a rice auction was in progress. Arms raised, waving frantically toward a dais at the back of the room, merchants called out bids. Hirata watched the man at the center of the dais.

Ogita paced, shouted, and gestured like an actor in a Kabuki theater. He wasn't more than average height, but he stood tall. His brown kimono, surcoat, and trousers were made of cotton, in accordance with the sumptuary laws that reserved silk for the samurai class, but his garments had the sheen of highest-quality fabric. His bald head and long, fleshy face shone, too-with grease from a rich diet. His eyes were narrow slits that glinted with intelligence and didn't miss a thing as they darted back and forth, spotting bidders. He wasn't fat, but he had a bulging double chin that seemed to amplify his voice as he repeated bids and demanded a better price. His energy aura was bigger and stronger than anyone else's; he dominated the crowd. But as he studied Edo's top rice broker, Hirata made a troubling discovery.

He was usually good at reading people, but his sleepless night and his state of distraction broke the concentration he needed to assess Ogita. His fear had begun to affect his work. How was he going to handle this interrogation?

The auction ended. Losing bidders left to try their luck at other houses. Ogita and the winners closed their deals by applying signature seals to contracts written up on the spot by his clerks. Servants poured ritual cups of sake. When the customers left, Hirata signaled his detectives to wait by the door while he approached Ogita.

He introduced himself, then said, "I'd like a word with you."

The slits of Ogita's eyes opened wider in surprise. "What about?"

"I'm investigating a series of crimes," Hirata said. "I need your assistance."

If Ogita was alarmed, Hirata couldn't tell. "I'm at your service." Ogita spread his hands in the gesture of a man who had much to give and nothing to withhold.

"Then you'll be happy to answer a few questions." Bereft of the extra sense that usually aided him during interrogations, Hirata fell back on standard detective procedure. He asked Ogita his whereabouts on the days that Chiyo, Fumiko, and the nun had been missing.

He'd expected Ogita to claim he couldn't remember details from so long ago, but Ogita called to a clerk: "Bring me my calendar."

The clerk fetched a clothbound book and handed it to Ogita. Ogita paged to the dates Hirata had mentioned and reeled off a list of activities that included rice auctions at his teahouse, business meetings around the city, banquets, his son's wedding, and drinking parties with customers, friends, and government officials. He smiled and asked, "Is that good enough?"

"That only accounts for your days," Hirata said. "What about your nights?"

"I was at home with my family and my bodyguards." Ogita added, "A man in my position has plenty of enemies, and I'm a target for thieves. My bodyguards stay near me wherever I am."

Hirata didn't doubt that they would confirm his alibi. "May I ask why you're so interested in my business?" Ogita spoke with mild curiosity, without the caution of a man who was guilty of crimes and threatened by the law. Hirata despaired because he couldn't discern whether Ogita's manner was an act or not. Used to relying on the powers gained from strenuous training and magic rituals, he felt as if he'd regressed to his days as a mere, ordinary human.

"Three women were kidnapped, held prisoner, and raped during those time periods," Hirata said.

"And you think I'm responsible?" Ogita's expression said he thought the idea was so absurd that he couldn't bother to be offended by it. "I am certainly not."

"You haven't asked who the women are," Hirata pointed out. He wasn't so distracted that he hadn't noticed the omission. "Maybe that's because you already know."

Ogita glanced at the ceiling long enough to convey scorn. "No, I don't know, but I suppose I should find out who's been slandering me. Who are they?"

Was Ogita pretending ignorance? Hirata only wished he knew that. "One is the gangster Jirocho's daughter. The second is a nun named Tengu-in. The third is Lady Chiyo, wife of Captain Okubo and cousin of Chamberlain Sano."

The rice broker's greasy face showed no recognition, except a frown at Sano's name. "Well, my condolences to them, but I never laid a hand on them. I don't even know them."

"You should be familiar with Lady Chiyo," Hirata said. "Her father is Major Kumazawa. He's in charge of guarding the ware houses that hold the rice you sell."

"I know him. Not his daughter."

Hirata couldn't have said whether he was lying or telling the truth. "She grew up in the Kumazawa clan's house, which isn't far from here. You must have seen her."

"Seen her, maybe. Anything else, no." Ogita made a negative, adamant, slashing gesture with his hand. Annoyance crept into his expression. "If I want a woman, I don't have to kidnap or rape one. Here, let me show you something."

Ogita stalked to the dais and spread out the rice contracts that lay upon a table. He jabbed his ink-stained finger at the huge sums written on the contracts. "With what I earned today, I could buy ten women for each day of the year, to do whatever I want. You can't really think I would stoop to kidnapping anybody, especially a relative of a man important to my business."

Hirata couldn't deny that Ogita had a point. But a man could become sexually obsessed with a particular woman who was beyond his reach, and none other would satisfy. "There's a witness to the effect that you did."

"Oh? Who?" Anger tightened Ogita's double chin.

Hirata explained about Jinshichi, Gombei, and the proprietor of the Drum Teahouse.

"Never heard of them," Ogita said. "But I'm not surprised that they've said bad things about me. People like to shoot arrows at the highest apples on the tree."

Hirata gazed at the contracts, disturbed because he'd hoped to bring Sano more than the expected denials from this suspect, and to make up for the fact that his men had lost the oxcart drivers.

"That's more money than you'll see in your lifetime," Ogita said crassly, mistaking Hirata's somber expression for envy. He lowered his voice. "I'm going to offer you a deal. You leave me out of your investigation, and I'll make it worth your while."

Hirata stared in disbelief. "Are you trying to bribe me?"

"Let's just call it a little private business arrangement." Ogita smiled. Nobody had offered Hirata a bribe since his police days. His longtime reputation for incorruptibility, and Sano's, were well known. "Forget it," Hirata said. "You can't stop me from investigating you by paying me off."

"Suit yourself." Ogita's smile persisted, but turned as menacing as a mouth carved in an armor face guard. "If you don't like that deal, then how about this one?

"Three of Chamberlain Sano's biggest allies owe me a lot of money. If you cause me any trouble, I'll call in their debts. They'll be ruined financially, and I'll make sure they know you're to blame. Think about where that will leave Chamberlain Sano."

The allies would surely withdraw their support from Sano. They would also try to influence the shogun to throw him out of the regime, and they would look for another leader.

Who would that be but Yanagisawa?

If three major allies defected from Sano, the balance of power would tip in Yanagisawa's favor, which could give Yanagisawa the impetus to resume his campaign to destroy Sano. Hirata faced a serious dilemma.

"Well?" Ogita said.

In his mind Hirata heard Sano's voice: I won't give in to blackmail. If I lose my allies and Yanagisawa makes his move, so be it. I'll take the risk for the sake of justice. Hirata admired Sano for his principles, but his own principles were different in this case. As Sano's chief retainer, Hirata was duty-bound to protect Sano even if it meant going against his wishes. He couldn't allow Ogita to make good on his threat.

As he vacillated, another thought confused the issue: Maybe Ogita wasn't responsible for the kidnappings or rapes. If so, Hirata would have put his master in jeopardy for nothing.

Hirata never knew what he would have said. Just then, the menacing pulse of energy vibrated through the air, striking him dumb. His whole body snapped to sudden, fearful attention. As his nerves began that ominous tingling and his blood raced, he forgot Ogita. His enemy was close at hand. Ears pricked and nostrils flared to catch the man's scent, Hirata silently vowed that this time he would find his enemy; this time they would fight, and he would win.

The pulse emanated from the teahouse's back room. Drawing his sword, Hirata advanced toward the curtained doorway.

"What are you doing?" Ogita said, puzzled.

Detective Arai said, "Hirata-san?"

Ignoring them, Hirata yanked the curtain aside. Beyond the doorway was a spacious room for parties. Two maids were rolling fresh tatami mats onto the floor. The pulse drew Hirata to another doorway. Ogita and the detectives followed.

"Is something wrong?" Detective Inoue said.

Hirata shushed him with a gesture of his hand. He peeked through the second curtain and saw a large, dim storeroom. Sake barrels were stacked in rows. Three servants unloaded more barrels from a handcart. Hirata slowly put one foot after another into the room. Screeches and howls resounded from other dimensions that impinged on his mind.

A bright flare of energy erupted from behind a row of barrels. Hirata lunged around them toward the energy. The servants yelled in fright, running for cover. Ogita cried, "Have you gone mad?"

Hirata slashed his sword at the place where he thought his enemy was hiding. But there was no one. His sword cut through a sake barrel. Pungent liquor spilled. Sensing the presence behind him, Hirata whirled, charged, and slashed. His blade cleaved more barrels. The space between the rows was vacant.

"Don't just stand there," Ogita said to the detectives. "Stop him before he wrecks my place!"

The detectives grabbed Hirata, but he threw them off. He kept attacking empty air. He didn't know whether he imagined feeling the energy or his foe had projected it toward him, a trick that only the most expert martial artists could manage.

Now the presence seemed to move outside the teahouse. Hirata rushed through the back door, into a yard where fireproof store houses with iron roofs stood. The daylight on their whitewashed walls struck his eyes. Blinded and reckless, he followed the pulsating energy down a path between the store houses. At the end of the path, cornered by a bamboo fence, stood a dark figure holding a sword.

Anticipation and a thirst for blood raged within Hirata. He rushed forward and swung his sword with all his strength.

His blade cut flesh and bone. A scream of agony pierced his ears, drowned out the noise in his mind. The pulsation stopped. The blindness and rage cleared from his vision. Triumphant and panting, Hirata sheathed his sword and looked down at the man he'd killed.

Crumpled on the earth lay a peasant boy not more than thirteen years old. His body was cut clean through across the middle. Viscera and blood pooled around him and a broom he'd dropped. His babyish face was frozen in an expression of terror.

Ogita and the detectives ran up behind Hirata. As they all stared at the carnage, Ogita exclaimed, "You killed my servant!"

It hadn't been his enemy he'd cornered, Hirata realized too late. It had been an innocent bystander. The sword Hirata had thought he'd seen was only the broom the boy had been holding.

"No!" Hirata cried. He knelt by the boy, patted his cheeks, and rubbed his hands in a frantic effort to revive him. But it was no use; not even a mystic martial arts expert could bring the dead boy back to life.

Hirata felt the pulse of his foe's energy, fading into the distance, like a taunt.

"You won't get away with this," Ogita said, loud with fury. "Even if you are the shogun's investigator, you'll pay!"

The detectives pulled Hirata to his feet, away from the dead boy. Inoue said, "Come on, Hirata-san, we'd better go."

As they led him out of the yard, Hirata realized that his troubles had just gone from bad to much worse. And that was exactly what his enemy had intended.