The Ronin’s Mistress

25

Reiko knelt by her father’s bedside for the rest of the night and all morning. Magistrate Ueda lay so still, his swollen eyes closed, the bruises turning a morbid purple. Not one hint of consciousness did Reiko see in him. His servants brought her food that she couldn’t eat. His retainers stopped by to ask about his condition. They spoke kindly to Reiko and she answered, but their sympathy couldn’t touch her. She felt imprisoned in some dark place, alone with her terror that her father would die.

Memories glimmered like fireflies through the darkness. She recalled her childhood self running to meet her father. He’d lifted her, tossed her up in the air, and they’d laughed. Her mother had died when she was born, but her father had never held it against her; he’d not been disappointed that she wasn’t a boy who could be his heir; he hadn’t left her to the care of servants, remarried, and started a new family, as other men would have done. He’d loved her and raised her with such devotion that she’d never missed having a mother. And he’d given her advantages that were usually reserved for sons.

He’d hired tutors to educate her in reading, arithmetic, writing, and history, and a martial arts master to teach her sword-fighting. He’d ignored the relatives who disapproved. He’d said that his daughter was too clever to let her grow up as ignorant as other girls. When she got older, she shared his interest in the law, and spent days in a chamber behind the Court of Justice, listening to the trials he conducted. Often she would whisper advice about questions he should ask the defendants or witnesses, or offer her opinion about whether the defendant was guilty. Her father trusted her intuition; he often took her advice even though she was only twelve, or fourteen, or sixteen years old. Now Reiko mused upon the fact that her upbringing had made possible her unconventional marriage to Sano and the work they did together. She had her father to thank for everything. She adored him for his kindness and his humor. How could she bear to lose him?

Especially if she lost Sano, too?

Reiko fought back tears. Falling apart wouldn’t help her father. Neither would letting herself be overpowered by rage at whoever had injured him. She must remain calm, strong. Her father was depending on her now.

She heard a faint groan. The slits of his eyes opened wider.

Reiko’s heart leaped. “Father?”

His head slowly turned toward her. “Reiko?” He frowned in confusion. “Where am I?’”

Thank the gods he was conscious! “At home,” Reiko said.

“How did I get here?”

“A doshin brought you.”

Magistrate Ueda made a feeble move to sit up. “My guards are dead. He shot them.” Grief appeared on his face as his memory returned. Urgency snapped his eyes fully open. The whites were stained red with broken blood veins. He fumbled to throw off the quilt. “I have to catch him! Before he gets away!”

“He’s gone, Father,” Reiko said. “It happened last night.”

“Last night?” Magistrate Ueda sounded puzzled. “What time is it?”

“It’s morning. Around the hour of the snake, I think.”

Anger compressed Magistrate Ueda’s cut lips. “So he did get away.”

“Not for long.” Reiko felt the burn of her own anger at the attacker. “My husband is hunting for him. So is Hirata. They’ll catch him. Don’t worry, Father.”

He tried to push himself upright, gasping. “I have to go. I have to help.”

Reiko gently restrained him. “You can help us figure out who did this. Do you know?”

“No.” Magistrate Ueda spoke with sad regret. “It was dark. I couldn’t see his face.”

“Did you notice anything about him?”

Magistrate Ueda’s eyelids drooped. His body went limp.

“Father?” Reiko could see his consciousness ebbing.

“Two,” he whispered.

Puzzled, she said, “Were there two men who attacked you?” A moment ago he’d referred to the attacker as “he.” And Sano had stopped in to relay the doshin’s story. The doshin had said he’d chased only one man he’d seen beating Magistrate Ueda.

“No,” Magistrate Ueda said faintly. “Two tattoos. On his arm. I saw.”

Comprehension excited Reiko. “He’d been convicted of two other crimes?” Repeat offenders were branded with tattoos on their arms. The tattoos were characters for the crimes they’d committed. If they were arrested again, the police would know they’d been in trouble before. The law would impose a harsher sentence than for a first offense.

“Yes,” Magistrate Ueda whispered.

“What were his crimes?” Reiko asked eagerly. “Could you read the tattoos?”

Magistrate Ueda closed his eyes. His breathing slowed.

“Father,” Reiko said. He didn’t respond. She tried to quell the fear that she’d heard his voice for the last time. She held his limp hand. “I’ll find out who he is.” The need for revenge consumed Reiko like fire licking dry tinder. It was the same, ancient, bred-in-the-blood impulse that had set forty-seven ronin on the man they held responsible for their master’s death. She had joined their brotherhood of avengers even though she was a mere woman. “I promise.”

* * *

On his way out of the house to spend the day with the shogun, Masahiro paused in the corridor, reluctant to leave. His grandfather was hurt, and he wanted to wait for news from his mother. And despite his worry about his grandfather, he couldn’t forget Okaru. The memory of watching her bathing yesterday sent waves of excitement, pleasure, and shame through him. Then, after she’d gone to see Oishi, she’d come home crying so hard. Although Masahiro pitied her, he couldn’t help being glad that Oishi had rejected her. Masahiro had thoughts that were so wild and improbable that he didn’t dare put them into words, even in his mind.

Taeko came down the corridor, walking carefully, carrying a tray laden with a teapot, cup, and covered dishes. When she saw Masahiro, she lowered her gaze. She’d been cool toward him since he’d been mean to her yesterday. He was sorry but too proud to say so.

“Is that food for Okaru?” he said.

“Yes.” Taeko edged past him. “I told the maids I would take it to her.”

Masahiro sensed that she didn’t like Okaru. “I’ll take it,” he said.

Taeko reluctantly handed over the tray. Filled with excitement and longing, Masahiro carried the tray to Okaru’s room. Okaru was in bed, curled up beneath the quilts, only the top of her head visible. Although Masahiro wanted to see her, he thought he probably shouldn’t bother her. He tiptoed into the room and bent to set the tray on the table beside the bed.

“Who’s there?” Okaru said in a muffled voice thick with tears.

Masahiro dropped the tray on the table with a crash. “It’s-it’s me. Masahiro.”

“What do you want?” Her head emerged from beneath the quilt. Her hair was tangled. Her face was puffy from crying.

“I-I brought your breakfast.” Masahiro pointed at the tray.

She ignored the food. “What are you looking at?” she demanded.

Masahiro was dumbstruck by the anger in her red, swollen eyes, embarrassed to see her suffering.

“You must think I’m stupid and pitiful,” Okaru said, her voice shaking. “Everybody probably does. I hate you! I hate everybody! Just leave me alone!”

Her words cut Masahiro as if they were knives. He couldn’t move or speak.

“Go away!” Okaru shrilled. She sat up, grabbed the teapot, and hurled it.

Masahiro ducked. The pot hit the wall. Tea splashed. The pot and lid landed on the tatami floor in a pool of hot liquid. Okaru burst into wild, loud sobbing. Goza hurried into the room, shoved Masahiro aside, and knelt beside Okaru.

Okaru threw herself into Goza’s arms and wailed, “I’m so miserable! I want to die!”

Goza scowled at Masahiro. “You’d better go.”

* * *

Hirata rode in widening arcs away from the blacksmiths’ quarter, his senses attuned to the aura of the man who’d attacked Magistrate Ueda. But the man was too long gone; the energy emitted by other people masked the residue of his aura. It was like hunting for one star amid the cosmos. At noon Hirata found himself in the area north of the Nihonbashi Bridge, near Odenmacho-the post-horse quarter, which offered horses for hire and served as the center of the national messenger system. The government employed messengers to carry documents between cities. A messenger dispatched from Edo would run to the next stage along the highway and pass his documents on to the next man. Fast runners could cover the distance to Miyako in sixty hours. Hirata passed the horse stables and the cheap inns, teahouses, and food-stalls where the messengers waited for work. He stopped outside a barbershop.

Its narrow room, behind a dingy plank storefront, was a favorite haunt of mystic martial artists. The barber gave his customers the latest news, gleaned from the messengers, while he cut their hair. Those who lived in Edo came to drink and visit and to meet itinerant comrades who stopped by. The nature of the barbershop was known only to its select community. No one else who peeked in would realize that its few ordinary-looking patrons had enough combat skill to defeat an army. Outsiders would feel a need to leave the premises. The patrons liked their privacy, and they projected energy that repelled the uninitiated.

Hirata hesitated at the door. Seeking Magistrate Ueda’s attacker was his top priority, his duty to Sano, and he should be hunting for witnesses. He also had to help Sano bring the forty-seven ronin business to a safe conclusion. But he kept thinking about the samurai named Tahara, who’d said they would meet again. Hirata must prepare.

He entered the barbershop. It was warm from the hearth, the plank walls and ceiling darkened by soot and tobacco smoke. The barber sat alone, sharpening his razors. A seventy-year-old ronin named Iseki, he had a face as lined as a crumpled piece of paper, and he’d been a formidable mystic martial artist until, decades ago, an earthquake had brought a house down on him and crushed his sword arm. Hirata watched Iseki deftly handling a razor and sharpening stone. Iseki managed as well with one hand as most men did with two, but his fighting days were long over.

“Greetings, Hirata-san,” Iseki said. “What can I do for you?”

“I need some information.”

“Just ask.”

“Do you know a samurai named Tahara?”

Concern gathered the wrinkles on Iseki’s face together. “Not personally, but I’ve heard of him. He’s from Iga Province.” Iga Province had its own tradition of mystic martial arts. Its samurai had learned from the ninja, a cult of peasant warriors adept in stealth. “His kind stick to themselves. They don’t come around here. But I can tell you that I wouldn’t have wanted to go up against Tahara even when I was in my prime. Do you know him?”

“Not yet.” Everything Hirata had just heard increased his apprehension about his next meeting with Tahara.

“I’m surprised,” Iseki said. “I thought you would.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a disciple of Ozuno.”

The news disconcerted Hirata. Ozuno was his teacher and mentor, from whom he’d learned the mystic martial arts. “Ozuno never mentioned Tahara.”

But why not? Ozuno had introduced Hirata to his other disciples. The idea that the omission was deliberate bothered Hirata. Had Ozuno wanted to conceal Tahara’s existence from him? His dread worsened. That Tahara had Ozuno’s training plus a background in the dark arts made him a formidable adversary indeed.

“What else can you tell me about him?” Hirata asked.

“His clan are bodyguards and secret police for the daimyo of Iga Province. Tahara came to Edo about two years ago.”

For me, Hirata thought.

“Rumor says that the daimyo loans Tahara out to other people and Tahara is presently working for the Tokugawa regime,” Iseki said.

That would explain how Tahara had access to Edo Castle. “Does he have any friends in town? Specifically, a priest and a soldier?”

“The priest is Deguchi, from Ueno Temple. The soldier is Kitano Shigemasa. They’re both great fighters.” Iseki gave Hirata a curious glance. “Don’t you know them either? They’re two more of Ozuno’s disciples.”

“No,” Hirata said, “he never mentioned them.” It seemed that Ozuno had deliberately kept him from these three fellow disciples. Now they’d banded together against him.

“My condolences, by the way,” Iseki said.

“What for?”

Iseki looked grave, sympathetic, and puzzled all at once. “Ozuno’s death. Is that something else you didn’t know about?”

Hirata felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. “I didn’t.”

“Sorry to deliver the bad news.”

“How did Ozuno die? And where?” Hirata had known that Ozuno was ancient, but he’d seemed immortal.

“At a temple in Nara where he was staying. He went peacefully in his sleep.”

“When was this?” Hirata said.

“About two years ago.”

That was around the same time that Tahara had come after Hirata. It couldn’t be a coincidence. But what did Tahara and his friends want?

“If you hear anything about Tahara or his friends, will you let me know?” Hirata said.

“I will.” Iseki warned, “If I were you, I would avoid them at all cost.”