The Iris Fan

33

“Isn’t this where you grew up?” Marume asked as he and Sano hurried through a neighborhood at the edge of Nihonbashi.

“Yes,” Sano said.

His background wasn’t a secret, but he rarely talked about it. His father had been a rōnin who’d lost his samurai status when a previous shogun had confiscated his lord’s lands and turned the lord’s retainers out to fend for themselves. Sano’s family had settled in this district amid the commoners. So had other former samurai. Sano wasn’t ashamed that some people looked down on him because of his lowly origin, but his father had never gotten over the disgrace. Sano kept quiet about it out of respect for his father, dead twenty years. He sadly remembered his father being so proud of him when he earned a position in the Tokugawa regime and restored their family’s honor.

“It’s been rebuilt since the earthquake.” Sano looked through the drizzle at the rows of humble but new houses. Streets had been rerouted; the bridge over the willow-edged canal was new. His childhood home, vacated after his widowed mother remarried and moved out of town, was gone, replaced by a building that housed several families. Sano had the disturbing sense that his past had been erased and so had all the gains he’d achieved since he’d left his old home. He’d lost his high position in the regime, ruined his marriage, and handed over his son to his enemy. Self-pity, fatigue, and strain suddenly overcame him. His eyes stung. With his future in jeopardy, he had nowhere to go.

“Looks like everybody’s left town,” Marume said. Shops were closed, the houses deserted, the neighborhood gates unguarded.

Not everybody had, and a part of Sano’s past remained. A samurai dressed in full armor stood with his horse outside the martial arts school that Sano’s father had once operated, where Sano had learned and taught sword-fighting. The low building with a brown tile roof and barred windows resembled the original so closely that it seemed a figment of his memory.

“Aoki-san,” Sano called.

The samurai smiled, greeted Sano, and bowed. He was Sano’s father’s former apprentice, now master of the school. “What brings you here?”

Sano was so glad to see a friendly face, someone he hadn’t hurt. “I’m looking up a former colleague. His name is Toda Ikkyu. Do you know him?”

Aoki nodded and gave directions to Toda’s house. “He’s probably left already. I was just locking up before I go.” He patted the wall, a gesture of love for the school that he might never see again.

“Aren’t you leaving town?” Sano asked. Aoki’s horse wasn’t carrying any baggage.

“No. Neither are the other men from the neighborhood, except those who are old or sick. We’re staying to fight in the war.” Excitement brightened Aoki’s eyes.

Sano realized this was a big opportunity for the men. “On whose side? Yanagisawa’s or Lord Ienobu’s?”

“Whichever one will take us.”

It didn’t matter to them which side they fought on; joining either would regain them their samurai status. But for a quirk of fate Sano might be in Aoki’s shoes. “Good luck.”

“You, too. May we meet again.” Aoki bowed. “I hope we end up on the same side.”

“If we don’t, no hard feelings,” Sano said.

Aoki rode away. Sano and Marume followed his directions to a row of houses. One entrance had the same clutter of buckets, brooms, and miscellany as the others, but the items seemed too deliberately arranged in order to make this home resemble the others so that it wouldn’t stand out. Sano knocked on the door. “Toda-san? Are you there?”

The man who answered looked as if the right half of his face had melted and solidified into a reddish purple mask of puckered scars. A black patch covered the eye. His scalp was bald on that side; the other was shaved. Sano’s heart lurched even though he’d seen Toda before and had known what to expect.

Marume, who hadn’t, said, “Whoa!”

“Meet Toda Ikkyu, retired spy,” Sano said.

“Is this the man you said you could never recognize?” Marume said in astonishment. “One look at that face, and I’d know it anywhere.”

Toda had once been completely nondescript and forgettable, an asset in his former profession as an agent for the metsuke, the Tokugawa intelligence service. “Detective Marume. I’ve heard about you.” He smiled with the undamaged half of his mouth. “This face is a reminder of my good luck.”

Marume stared with open revulsion. “Give me bad luck any time.”

“Some people lost their lives during the earthquake. I only lost half my face and a couple of fingers in the fire that burned down my house afterward.” Toda held up his hands. They were red and scarred, both missing the little fingers. He poked his head out the door. “You’d better come in out of the rain.”

His home consisted of one austere room. Sano, Marume, and Toda knelt on the frayed tatami. Shelves that held a few dishes, pots, and utensils surrounded a hearth at one end of the room. The bed was rolled neatly in a corner by a portable writing desk. A few trunks concealed everything else Toda owned.

“I haven’t any liquor, but I can offer you some tea,” Toda said.

“That’s not necessary,” Sano said, knowing how poor Toda was. He hid his pity, sparing Toda’s pride. “We won’t impose on you for long. You must be anxious to leave.”

“Leave? And miss the war?” Toda laughed. “It will be the greatest spectacle of my lifetime.”

He either had no place to go or no means for getting there, Sano thought. “Be careful.”

“If a stray bullet gets me, fine. There are worse ways to die.” Toda asked Sano, “Who let you out? I thought Yanagisawa had you sewed up tight. Congratulations on your son’s marriage.”

“I see that you’re still well informed.”

“Even though Lord Ienobu kicked me out of the metsuke after thirty years of loyal service, I still have friends who bring me news.”

“Not so loyal service,” Sano reminded Toda. “You were never completely in his camp or anyone else’s. You played for all sides.”

Toda smiled wryly. “Help all of the people some of the time, and I’ll be fine whoever ends up on top. That was my survival strategy, but it didn’t work with Lord Ienobu-he’s an all-or-nothing sort of man.”

“So why are you still alive?” Marume asked.

“He likes knowing there’s someone uglier than he is.”

Sano and Marume laughed. Toda said, “No, it’s because he thinks he may need me someday. I have a lot of information stored up here.” He tapped his scarred head.

“That’s why I’m here,” Sano said. “To mine your memory.”

Toda turned serious now that they were getting down to business. “Lord Ienobu took away my stipend. I can’t afford to give anything away for free.”

“I’ll give you back your stipend after we defeat Lord Ienobu,” Sano said.

“Hah! Fat chance. Is that the best you can offer?”

“Yes.”

Conceding with a shrug, Toda said, “Ask away.”

“Have there recently been any sudden, unexpected deaths in the regime?”

Toda’s eye gleamed with interest. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Nobody’s looked too closely at them, for fear of running afoul of Lord Ienobu.”

Sano felt the sinking sensation that presaged bad news. “Who died?”

“The assistant to the treasury minister.”

“He used to divert money from taxes and tributes into Yanagisawa’s pocket.” Sano saw that putting him out of action would have benefited Lord Ienobu. “How did he die, and when?”

“About two years ago. He had severe indigestion after a banquet. He was a glutton and a big drinker. He died after being violently ill all night.”

“Who else?”

“A captain of the palace guard. He was Yanagisawa’s man, too. He got bronchitis during the Mount Fuji eruption, and he’d had trouble breathing ever since. One night he couldn’t get enough air and suffocated.”

The guard captain would have been able to arrange a lapse in palace security so that Yanagisawa could assassinate Lord Ienobu. Sano and Marume exchanged grave looks as they saw the pattern. Dengoro was the most recent case in which someone who’d posed a threat to Lord Ienobu had had a health problem that could account for his sudden death.

“Do you think the deaths were murders?” Toda asked. “Is that why you’re interested in them? Because you think Lord Ienobu is responsible and you can use it against him? If so, then I’m sorry to disappoint you. There were no wounds or evidence of poison on the bodies.”

No one would have thought to look for a fingerprint-shaped bruise, Sano realized. No one would have suspected that Hirata was involved. If not for his hunch that had sent him to Edo Morgue, Sano wouldn’t have seen the telltale sign on Dengoro.

“I knew it was a long shot digging for dirt on Lord Ienobu. I just asked on the off chance that you had some.” Sano couldn’t tell Toda that it was Hirata whose crimes he was trying to uncover. His own former chief retainer and friend! “I figured you wouldn’t mind helping me take Lord Ienobu down.”

“Believe me, I would be glad to. But his hands are clean as far as I know.”

But Hirata’s weren’t, Sano was now certain. Sano wondered if Lord Ienobu had any idea that someone was secretly killing his enemies on his behalf.

“The third sudden death doesn’t seem to have benefited Lord Ienobu,” Toda said.

Two out of three was bad enough. “Who was it?”

“A samurai named Ishikawa Kakubei.”

“Never heard of him,” Marume said.

“He didn’t live in Edo, although he died here,” Toda said.

“What was he doing here?” Sano asked.

“He was from Nagasaki. He accompanied an envoy of Dutch traders when they came to Edo to visit the shogun.”

Nagasaki was the only place in Japan where foreigners were allowed. A previous shogun had decided that foreigners-and their strange religions and advanced weaponry-posed a danger to the regime and had closed Japan’s other ports. The Western barbarians were the most feared foreigners of all. Only the Dutch, who’d signed an agreement not to meddle in local affairs or spread Christianity, were permitted to trade with Japan. They lived in a prisonlike compound in Deshima, an island off the coast of Nagasaki.

“I remember that visit,” Sano said. “It was a few months after the earthquake.” He also remembered his own visit to Nagasaki nineteen years ago, in another lifetime.

“It was a bad time for them to come,” Marume said. “The roads were barely passable, and the city was still in ruins.”

“The shogun was afraid he would lose face if the Dutch saw his castle in such bad shape,” Toda said, “but they’d been granted official permission for their annual journey to pay their respects to him, and protocol is protocol.”

Sano had been busy organizing relief for the people left homeless and destitute by the earthquake and tsunami. He’d briefly met the Dutch, and he didn’t recall their Japanese escorts.

“Ishikawa was a translator,” Toda said. “He was one of three who interpreted for the Dutch during their visit.”

There were only a few translators in Japan. It was against the law for anyone except those trusted, officially appointed men to learn foreign languages. People who spoke foreign languages might conspire with foreigners against their own government.

“How did he die?” Sano asked.

“He caught a bad cold during the journey. By the time he reached Edo, it had settled in his lungs. He had a high fever, which is what killed him, according to the doctors. He died the day before the Dutch went back to Nagasaki.”

Sano unwillingly spotted another example in the pattern. But why would Hirata have killed a translator? That couldn’t have done Lord Ienobu any good.

“The poor sap,” Marume said. “He made the trip and died for nothing. He must not have interpreted while the Dutch met with the shogun. The shogun never lets anybody who’s sick get near him.”

“That’s right,” Toda said, “but Lord Ienobu had a private meeting with the Dutch envoys. Ishikawa translated during that.”

Here was the connection between Lord Ienobu and Ishikawa. An unpleasant, ominous feeling told Sano that the meeting was an important clue and Hirata was involved in the translator’s death. “What happened at that meeting?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t find out about it until after Ishikawa was dead and the Dutch had gone back to their country. I could hardly ask Lord Ienobu.”

“Was anybody else present?” Sano asked.

“Just Lord Ienobu’s chief retainer. Manabe.”

Sano experienced a sense of inevitability. He’d circled back to the unfinished business that had put him on the cold, dark road from Yoshiwara on a winter night. His quest for the truth about Yoshisato’s death had led him to Manabe. His quest for the truth about Hirata and the attack on the shogun had led him to the same person, again.