“I’m hungry,” the shogun announced to the boys crowded into his chamber. Lounging on cushions on the dais, wrapped in quilts, he stroked the heads of his two favorite boy concubines. They were twins, thirteen years old, with rosy, pretty faces and sweetly bland smiles. “Where’s lunch? It must be, ahh, at least an hour overdue.”
Chamberlain Sano’s son Masahiro opened the door to let in three elderly servants. They staggered up to the dais, carrying trays laden with covered dishes. All the younger servants were out helping to fix the castle. Only two of Masahiro’s fellow pages and a lone, middle-aged bodyguard were on duty. The old servants set the trays before the shogun and bowed.
“Ahh, at last.” The shogun took the lids off dishes, revealing rice, pickled vegetables, and a soup made with dried shrimp, tofu, and seaweed. The boys leaned forward hungrily. Masahiro’s stomach growled. The shogun frowned. “This is the same lunch I had yesterday! I want something else.”
One of the servants said, “A thousand apologies, Your Excellency, but-but I’m afraid… there isn’t anything else.”
Food had been scarce and limited in variety since the earthquake, even in the castle, Masahiro knew. But the shogun either didn’t know or didn’t care.
“There has to be something else for me to eat! I’m the shogun!” He picked up a bowl and hurled it. The servant ducked. Soup sprayed from the bowl as it flew. It hit the wall, then broke on the floor. The boys gasped. Masahiro couldn’t help thinking that if he’d acted like that when he was little, his nurse would have spanked him.
The shogun flapped his hand at the servants. “Take this slop away and bring something new, or I’ll, ahh, have you and the cooks put to death!”
Lugging the trays, the servants hurried off. Masahiro and the other boys gazed longingly after the food. The shogun said to them, “Clean up the mess!”
The two other pages jumped to obey. They, like Masahiro, were sons of government officials. They were in competition to show who could best serve the shogun. If they impressed him favorably, they would get high positions when they grew up. They raced each other to pick up the broken bowl.
“Pour me some tea-I’m thirsty,” the shogun said. One of the twins lifted the teapot from a table. He poured tea into a cup held by his brother, who handed it to the shogun. The shogun drank, and grunted. “This is cold!”
The twins set the pot on a brazier, then discovered that the fire inside had gone out. The pages stepped on the spilled soup and tracked it across the tatami.
“You’re making things worse!” the shogun cried. Other concubines removed the grate from the brazier and fanned the coals. Ash billowed into the air. “Stop, stop!” He waved his hand and coughed. The pages rushed to open the window. “No! I’ll freeze to death!”
Masahiro had witnessed many scenes like this since the earthquake, since the shogun’s concubines and youngest retainers had been given charge of the private chambers. Incompetence and chaos reigned. Masahiro slipped quietly from the chamber and fetched a broom and dustpan. Unlike other samurai boys, he’d learned from his family’s servants how to make fires, clean house, and even cook simple foods when he was little; he’d thought it was fun. Every day he resisted the urge to put his skills to use lest he attract too much attention from the shogun. His parents had warned him against that, when he’d first become a page last year.
“This is a great opportunity,” Sano had said. “Do well, and you’ll bring honor to the family as well as secure yourself a good place in the regime. But it’s also dangerous, because the shogun likes boys.”
As his father awkwardly explained what the shogun did with them, Masahiro wasn’t surprised. He’d happened upon similar goings-on among the retainers in his own household. Manly love was considered normal, acceptable. And Masahiro had heard the gossip about the shogun and the boys at the palace.
“Your mother and I don’t want that for you,” Sano said. “We’d rather you get a lesser post than become the shogun’s plaything.”
Masahiro had learned that their attitude was unusual. Most parents in their position would willingly, if not happily, sacrifice their children to advance the family.
“We can’t keep you away from the shogun, and even if we could, we wouldn’t deny you the opportunity to make good for yourself.” Regret showed on Sano’s face. “All we can do is tell you to be careful.”
“How?” Masahiro asked. Even though he felt no disapproval toward people who practiced manly love, he didn’t have any urge to do it himself-especially not with the shogun, who was a cranky old man.
“Be obedient, but don’t volunteer for anything,” Sano said. “Do the best work you can, but quietly. Only speak if you’re spoken to.” His conflicted expression said he knew his advice ran counter to what a courtier should do if he wanted to succeed. “Don’t stand out.”
“Yes, Father,” Masahiro said.
At the time he couldn’t have foreseen the earthquake or how hard it would be to sit by and watch other people do badly what he could do well. Now he handed the broom and dustpan to the other pages. He surreptitiously wiped the floor mats with a cloth while they made a show of sweeping up the china fragments. He stood in a corner instead of taking over for the two boys who were poking at the coals in the brazier, trying to restart the fire.
“I’m bored,” the shogun announced. “Somebody read to me.”
The twins took turns reading aloud from a book of poems. They faltered and made mistakes. Masahiro winced.
“Enough!” the shogun cried. “I can’t bear to listen to you mangle fine literature!” The twins fell silent. “Why am I surrounded by idiots?”
Everyone looked at the floor while he began ranting. No one dared say a word. Into the room shuffled Lord Ienobu, the shogun’s nephew. He climbed onto the dais, knelt, took the book from the twins, and said, “Please allow me, Honorable Uncle.”
His voice was raspy, but he read every word perfectly. The shogun nodded, appeased. The sight of the hunchback with the ugly, toothy face gave Masahiro the same creepy feeling he got when he saw a toad. Ienobu flicked his gaze around the room, as if looking for prey to eat. Masahiro sat still and quiet among the other boys. He reminded himself of his father’s advice. He must avoid standing out, even if it killed him.
“I’ll pay my call on Lord Hosokawa,” Sano said to Hirata as they stood by the bodies on the ground by the sunken house. “You take the women to Edo Morgue.”
Hirata understood that Sano wanted the bodies examined by his friend Dr. Ito, the morgue custodian. Dr. Ito would use his scientific expertise to determine the cause of death. But Sano couldn’t say that in public. Nor could he personally seek Dr. Ito’s advice.
An empty oxcart rolled by. Hirata beckoned the driver, a tough peasant youth. The townsmen left their sick comrade and wrapped the bodies in hemp sacking, then loaded them into the open cart. Hirata mounted his horse. As he rode off leading the oxcart, he saw Sano watching him and felt a stab of guilt. He remembered how often he’d shirked his duties during the past year. He guessed that Sano didn’t believe the excuses he made; he understood that Sano was making allowances for him that other masters wouldn’t. He knew he should tell Sano the truth about what he was up to and face the consequences, but the time never seemed right.
While he traveled through the city, Hirata noticed soldiers patrolling on foot rather than horseback. Hundreds of horses had been killed by the earthquake or injured so badly they’d had to be put down, their carcasses cremated. Hirata saw an ash heap littered with their blackened skeletons; he smelled rotting and burned flesh. He also observed things that were beyond ordinary human perception.
His training in the mystic martial arts had sharpened his senses until he could see the cracks in the walls of Edo Castle as if they were as close as his hand, smell the green life dormant in winter mountain forests, and hear a man across town coaxing another man to invest in a scheme for buying liquor in Osaka and selling it for a huge profit in Edo. He could taste salt from the ocean far down past the mouth of the Sumida River, and feel against his cheeks the minute, invisible dust particles in the air. He could also sense the auras of living things, the energy that their bodies emitted. Each human had a unique aura that signaled his personality, health, and emotions. The landscape of Hirata’s mind hummed, blazed, and crackled with the auras from the city’s million people. He could pick out those that belonged to people he knew, and the misery-laced, fading energy of victims trapped in earthquake rubble. That plus his supernatural strength had made him useful in search and rescue. A part of him always remained on alert for one particular aura-the conjoined energy from the three fellow disciples of Ozuno, his teacher. Hirata never knew when they would show up, and he was always on his guard in case they did.
He followed a dirty track through the slums of Odenmacho, which were carpeted with the remains of flimsy hovels once occupied by Edo’s poorest citizens. Emaciated men, women, and children crowded around fires. Haunted eyes gazed at Hirata from grimy faces. Suddenly Hirata felt the aura, a mighty, booming pulsation that countered the rhythm of his heart and tingled along every nerve. Its force made the air ring and shimmer like shattered crystal. His hand flew to the sword at his waist at the same time he fought instinctive terror and the urge to run. He reined in his horse, jumped down from the saddle. The cart driver halted his two oxen and beheld Hirata with puzzlement.
Three men appeared, some fifty paces away, as if they’d materialized out of the bonfire smoke. Side by side, they moved toward Hirata. Although they strolled at a leisurely pace, they covered the distance so fast that they arrived in an instant. Their aura dissipated as if sucked inside them by a vacuum. They, unlike other people, could turn it on and off. They stood before him, two samurai and a priest.
“Surprise,” the samurai in the middle said. With his athletic physique and strong, regular features, he looked the perfect samurai. His flowing dark gray coat and trousers swirled around him in a wind of his own creation. A twinkle in his deep black eyes, and a left eyebrow that was higher than the right, gave him a rakish charm.
“Greetings, Tahara- san,” Hirata said.
Tahara was the trio’s leader, the one Hirata feared most, although he was almost as afraid of the others. They were the only men in Japan capable of defeating him in combat. His friendship with them felt as hazardous as holding a wasp in his mouth.
“Fancy running into you,” Hirata said. “I haven’t seen you in, what, seven days?”
“Eight.” Tahara’s eyes twinkled brighter: He knew that Hirata knew the exact length of the time since their last meeting. “Sorry to make myself so scarce.” His voice had a curious quality that was at once smooth and rough, that brought to mind a stream flowing over jagged rocks. “I’ve been busy guarding the Tokugawa rice warehouses.” His clan were retainers to the daimyo of Iga Province, known for its tradition of mystic martial arts practiced by the ninja, a cult of peasant warriors adept at stealth. The daimyo had loaned Tahara to the government for security work.
“Pity the poor thief who tries to get past you,” Hirata said.
Tahara, who could kill a man as quickly and effortlessly as look at him, shrugged with a modest smile.
Hirata turned to the other samurai. “What have you been up to, Kitano- san?”
“Leading Lord Satake’s fire brigade.” Kitano Shigemasa was a retainer to Lord Satake. He wore the iron helmet and armor tunic of a soldier. Although he was in his fifties and gray-haired, his figure was robust. His eyes crinkled as if in a smile, but the rest of his face, a mesh of scars, remained immobile. As a youth, he’d been wounded in a drunken brawl, his face badly cut. The cuts had damaged his facial nerves. “Can’t let the rest of Edo burn down.”
The government delegated the responsibility for fighting fires to the daimyo, whose efforts had proved woefully inadequate during the earthquake. Since then, they’d much increased their manpower and vigilance.
“And you, Deguchi- san?” Hirata turned to the third man.
Deguchi was a Buddhist priest from the Z o j o Temple district. His maroon cloak covered a saffron-dyed robe. His shaved head was bare. Thirty years old, he could pass for twenty or forty. Although his long, oval face was plain-the eyes heavily lidded, the nose flat, and mouth pursed-he had a haunting, luminescent beauty. His eyes glowed as they met Hirata’s.
“He’s been giving charity to the earthquake victims,” Kitano said. Deguchi never spoke; he was mute. Tahara had explained to Hirata that Deguchi was an orphan who’d lived on the streets, working as a prostitute. A customer had strangled him and damaged his throat.
And Hirata had been wounded in the leg and crippled when he’d taken a blade for Sano. He and Deguchi and Kitano had something in common-a life-changing injury. Ozuno had helped them overcome their handicaps. Hirata couldn’t tell what, if any, injury Tahara had sustained.
Tahara glanced at the bodies in the oxcart. “Taking earthquake victims to Edo Morgue? Isn’t that a bit menial for a fellow of your rank? What are you up to?”
“It’s confidential.” Hirata couldn’t tell anyone what was in store at the morgue, and he didn’t like sharing his business with these men. “What do you want?”
Kitano wagged his finger at Hirata. “There’s no need to be so abrupt with your friends.”
Tahara sidled off, drawing Kitano, Deguchi, and Hirata out of the oxcart driver’s earshot, then said, “It’s time for a ritual.”
Irritation jabbed Hirata. “Not again.”
“Why not?” Kitano said, a hint of pique beneath his amusement. “The rituals are the purpose of our secret society. That was explained to you before you joined.”
“When I joined your secret society, you explained that the purpose was to influence the course of fate and transform the world according to a cosmic plan for its destiny,” Hirata reminded Kitano. “You said you had an ancient book of magic spells that you inherited from Ozuno when he died. You told me that the spells are activated by the rituals you do. But that’s starting to sound like nonsense. Because you won’t show me this book. And because I’ve done five rituals with you and nothing has happened. We sat in the woods at night. We burned incense and chanted some gibberish. All we accomplished was to get stung by mosquitoes in the summer and freeze our behinds in the winter. So excuse me if I’m not eager for another ritual.”
Kitano’s eyes narrowed. Deguchi brooded. Tahara looked a little abashed as he said, “We also told you that we don’t control whether, or when, the rituals produce the magic. That’s up to the spirits that the rituals are designed to invoke.”
“That’s how it works,” Kitano said.
“How it doesn’t work, you mean,” Hirata retorted.
“Oh, it works,” Tahara said with an edge to his voice. “You saw for yourself, the day Yoritomo died.”
What Hirata had seen was the reason he’d believed the three men could do everything they claimed, the reason he’d joined their secret society. But his awe had faded. “You said the magic reveals actions for you to take, that might seem trivial but will change the course of fate. Yes, I believed you brought about Yoritomo’s death. But now I think it was just a lucky fluke.”
Temper ignited in the men’s eyes. Tahara said, “It was no fluke.” Their aura pulsed faintly, ominously.
“I’m not doing another ritual,” Hirata said, despite his fear. “I’m already in trouble with my master, for taking time off work and lying about what I’ve been doing. Count me out.”
“When you joined us, you swore to put the secret society ahead of all other things,” Tahara reminded Hirata. “You also swore that you wouldn’t reveal its business to outsiders.”
“Those are terms I never should have agreed to.” Hirata had wanted to acquire the supernatural powers the men had, but he’d also wanted to gain some control over them and protect Sano. Now he regretted that he’d let the society come between him and Sano, him and the Way of the Warrior. “Why do you need me, anyway? The three of you have so much power-aren’t you enough?”
They didn’t answer. Was that uncertainty Hirata sensed in them? He started to walk back to his horse and the oxcart. The three men moved so swiftly that their images blurred. As they blocked his path, their aura strengthened.
“You agreed nonetheless,” Tahara said. “And now that you’re in the society, you must participate in the rituals. If you don’t-”
Suddenly Hirata couldn’t speak or move. His body was stone, his breath caught. Tahara’s, Deguchi’s, and Kitano’s mental powers paralyzed him. Nearby, the oxcart driver napped and people huddled around the bonfires, unaware that anything unusual was afoot.
“We’ll give you a little time to think about what you want,” Kitano said.
Hirata’s heart pounded in his ears; his lungs struggled to suck air. Blackness rimmed his vision. His mind filled with the terrible knowledge of his helplessness, his mortality.
“Then we’ll talk about the ritual,” Tahara said.
A moment before Hirata lost consciousness, the men relaxed their power. His paralysis broke. He gulped huge, wheezing breaths, like a fish freed from a net and tossed back in water. The blackness receded. Flexing his muscles, he glared at his companions.
Tahara smiled. Mirth crinkled Kitano’s eyes. Deguchi’s eyes glinted with satisfaction.
“If you ever do that again, you’ll be sorry.” But Hirata knew he had no way to make them sorry. Three against one, they were too strong; even singly, they could each best him. “And I’m not doing any more rituals.”
He stomped past them, brushing his hands against his sleeve. But his bravado was false. While he rode away, the skin on his back flinched under their gazes. Inside he trembled with fear that joining the society was the worst mistake he’d ever made, that he’d gotten himself into something far beyond his ability to handle.