The Incense Game

35

Traveling back to Edo, Hirata set such a fast pace that his horse staggered to a halt on the outskirts of town. He jumped down, glanced up at the sky, and cursed. The sun was rapidly descending toward the western horizon. Desperate to reach the castle before the hour of the cock, he looked around. A mounted soldier trotted in his direction. Hirata ran to the soldier, pulled him off the horse, leaped on, and galloped away. He crouched low in the saddle; the horse’s hooves pounded the earth; Edo’s blighted landscape streamed past him. When the horse gave out in the daimyo district, Hirata leaped from the saddle and ran. Outside the castle, a long line of samurai waited at the gate. Hirata raced to the head of the line.

“This is an emergency,” he told the sentries.

They let him in. He hurried upward through the walled passages, veering around pedestrians, detouring around crumbled pavement. Halfway up the hill, porters carrying wooden beams blocked the path. On their left, the hill rose steeply to the next level of the castle. Hirata scaled the slope, grabbing at trees and shrubs. He climbed a broken wall and jumped down into another passage. Running past mounted patrol guards, he began to tire. Not even mystical powers could keep his body moving so fast indefinitely. By the time Hirata entered the palace gate, his leg ached from the old wound. He limped around the ruins of the palace. Reaching the guesthouse, he fell to his hands and knees. Sweat poured down his face. Panting, Hirata crawled.

Temple bells began tolling the hour of the cock.

Seated on the dais inside his chamber, the shogun announced, “It’s time for my exercise.” He held out his hand to Masahiro, who pulled him to his feet.

“Fetch His Excellency’s outdoor clothes,” Masahiro told the other pages.

The pages glowered at him; they didn’t like him giving them orders, but they obeyed. The shogun had granted him authority to tell everyone what to do. The pages dressed the shogun in the mounds of clothes he wore when he went for the brief walk his doctor had recommended. The shogun leaned heavily on Masahiro as they strolled around the garden, where dark green pines, leafless cherry trees, and frozen flower beds circled a pond with a bridge to a little pavilion. The shogun sniffled. Masahiro turned to him. Was he catching a cold? Everyone in Edo Castle feared he would take ill and die. Then Masahiro saw tears on the shogun’s cheek.

“What’s the matter, Your Excellency?” Masahiro asked.

“Ahh, I’m so unhappy.” The shogun sobbed.

“Why?” Masahiro was puzzled. The shogun had everything a person could want.

“Because I feel so lost,” the shogun said. “Life seems like a, ahh, path through darkness and confusion and danger. I don’t know which way to turn. And I’m all alone.”

This was Masahiro’s first inkling that power and wealth didn’t guarantee happiness. “But you’re not alone. You’re always surrounded by people.”

“That’s part of my problem!” The shogun turned to Masahiro. His eyes and nose were red from weeping. “They’re so smart, and so, ahh, sure of themselves. They know what to do.”

“But that’s good, isn’t it?” Masahiro said, mystified. “They can help you figure things out. You don’t have to do it by yourself.”

“But I wish I could!” the shogun exclaimed. “I wish I were like my ancestor, Tokugawa Ieyasu, who defeated his enemies on the battlefield and founded the regime. He didn’t need anyone to tell him what to do or think. The cosmos would never think he was a poor ruler and send an earthquake to warn him!”

Masahiro was amazed. He’d thought the shogun liked being dependent and idle. Maybe that was one of the many things the earthquake had changed.

“But I’m too weak and stupid and useless,” the shogun said, wiping his tears on his sleeve. “And everybody thinks so.”

“No, they don’t,” Masahiro hastened to lie. “They respect you.”

“Only because they’re afraid that if they don’t, they’ll be put to death! I know! I’ve seen them sneer and roll their eyes when they think I’m not looking.”

Masahiro had thought the shogun was too dense to notice. He didn’t know what to say.

“And I deserve it.” Dissolving into sobs, the shogun leaned more heavily on Masahiro. “Ahh, how I wish I could be different! But it’s too late. I’ve been a fool all my life. I’ll be one until the day I die!”

Masahiro didn’t know how to console the shogun. He thought about fetching help, but the shogun wouldn’t want anyone else to see him in this condition. And Masahiro felt protective toward his lord. He searched his brain for words.

“It’s not too late. As long as we’re alive, there’s a chance to do the things that are important.” That was what his father had once told Masahiro when he was little, when he’d complained that he wanted to be a great sword-fighter and a great archer but he didn’t have enough time to practice both martial arts. “If you really want to change, you can.”

The shogun regarded Masahiro with eager hope. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes.” Masahiro believed his father.

“But how do I become a great samurai like Tokugawa Ieyasu?”

That was an easy question. “You must study the Way of the Warrior.” Masahiro had had its principles drilled into him, by his tutors and his parents, ever since he could remember. “You must apply it to everything you do.”

“Yes! I will!” Enthusiasm cheered up the shogun. Then his brow wrinkled. “But I’m afraid that people won’t like it if I start, ahh, making decisions and taking actions on my own.”

They wouldn’t, Masahiro thought. The shogun’s men enjoyed running the government themselves. But he said, “You’re the dictator. It’s your right.”

“But I’m afraid I’ll make mistakes.”

Again Masahiro quoted his father: “‘Mistakes are our best teachers.’”

The shogun vacillated. “People will disapprove. They won’t say so, but I’ll be able to tell. I don’t think I can bear it.”

“If you’re doing what you believe is right and honorable, then no one else’s opinion matters. Don’t be afraid to stand up for yourself.” Masahiro had never exactly heard these things said at home, but he had watched his father-and his mother-act accordingly.

“Ahh, you are so wise so young.” The shogun beamed affectionately at Masahiro, patting his arm. “I’m so glad I have you to talk to. I feel much better now.”

As they circled the garden arm in arm, a dark, crooked shadow fell across their path.

Using the last of his strength, Hirata crawled into the garden behind the guesthouse. Cramps shot pain through every muscle as his veins overflowed with the poisons from burning so much energy during his mad rush. He gasped as he inched along the ground. After such intense exertion, even the strongest, most adept mystic needed to rest. Hirata fought the tide of exhaustion. Pulling himself along, hand then knee, hand then knee, he cleared the trees that bordered the garden. Beyond the pavilion, through the sweat that dripped into his eyes, he saw the shogun strolling with Masahiro. He heard their entire conversation.

He had only an instant to be surprised that while he’d been gone, Masahiro had gained the trust of the shogun. Panic blasted through him. His lord and his master’s son were in the scene that the ghost had ordered him to engineer. This couldn’t be good. Hirata opened his mouth to call out, to warn them to leave, but he couldn’t catch enough breath. Masahiro spied him and frowned, obviously wondering why Hirata was on the ground. Now Hirata saw Ienobu hobbling toward Masahiro and the shogun. Ienobu had shown up promptly at the place where Hirata’s letter had lured him. Hirata could tell that Ienobu had overheard the conversation, too. He was so angry that his face was crimson.

Realization struck Hirata: The ghost wanted Ienobu to witness the scene between the shogun and Masahiro.

“Stop!” Hirata called out to Ienobu. His voice was a barely audible wheeze.

Ienobu hunched in front of Masahiro and the shogun. Startled, they paused. Ienobu demanded, “What’s going on?”

The shogun shrank from his nephew’s angry tone. “We were, ahh, having a little talk.”

“So I see.” Ienobu turned on Masahiro. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

Hirata wanted to rush over and put himself between Masahiro and Ienobu, but cramps immobilized him. Masahiro spoke up bravely: “I’m giving His Excellency advice.”

Ienobu’s eyes bulged like those of a carp dunked in boiling water. “I know. I heard you.” His voice trembled with rage. “How dare you presume to tell my uncle what to do? You’re just a child!”

“His Excellency asked.” Masahiro squared his shoulders, held his head high. “It was my duty to answer.”

“Don’t quote Bushido to me, you little upstart,” Ienobu retorted.

“Don’t speak to Masahiro that way,” the shogun piped up timidly. “Yes, he’s a child, but I, ahh, respect his judgment.”

“Honorable Uncle, you should have consulted me before giving this boy such great responsibility.” Ienobu’s ominous tone said he realized how much power Masahiro had gained and he didn’t intend for it to continue. He didn’t want the shogun thinking for himself instead of meekly allowing Ienobu to manipulate him into naming Ienobu as his heir. “What he’s telling you is nonsense. I’ll find you a more suitable head of chambers.” Ienobu turned to Masahiro.

“You’re dismissed. Leave us.”

Masahiro said to the shogun, “I’ll leave if Your Excellency wants me to.”

“I don’t want anybody but Masahiro,” the shogun said in a stronger voice. “And if you keep trying to tell me what to do, Nephew, I will dismiss you.”

Shaking with impotent rage, Ienobu glared at Masahiro. “I won’t forget this.” He turned on his heel and shuffled out of the garden. Masahiro looked stunned. The shogun beamed, proud of his own nerve, as he and Masahiro went inside the guesthouse. Hirata lay on the ground, tortured by cramps, horrified by what had happened.

His master’s son had just made an enemy of Ienobu, who was first in line for the succession. Hirata was to blame, no matter that he hadn’t anticipated it and had never intended to jeopardize Masahiro. Ignorance didn’t excuse him. He had put the secret society ahead of his duty to protect Sano and Sano’s kin. Now, after learning the terrible truth about Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi and witnessing the dangerous consequences of his actions, he finally realized what a mistake he’d made.

Hirata pushed up his sleeve and looked at his arm. The ghost’s message was gone.