Laura Rowland - The Iris Fan

She could never trust him again; things would never be the same. Taeko fled down the stairs, into the wet garden.

Masahiro ran after her, calling, “I’m sorry! Let me make it up to you!”

He caught her arm. She shrieked, “Leave me alone!” and flailed her fists at him. He tried to hold her. As they struggled, she lost her balance and fell. She lay on the ground and screamed, “Knock me down! Hit me if you want!” Masahiro stood over her, looking miserable. “Kill me! Kill the baby, too! Then you won’t have to bother with us!”

His face went blank. “What baby?”

This wasn’t how Taeko had meant to tell him, but it was too late to take it back. She sobbed out the words. “I’m with child.”

Masahiro staggered as if she’d hit him across his stomach. He inhaled, was dumbfounded, and puffed out his cheeks. “How long have you known?”

“A while.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He sounded as grieved as angry.

Her own anger helped Taeko regain her self-control. “When would have been a good time? While we were sneaking into the storeroom? After you were engaged to marry Yanagisawa’s daughter?”

“You should have told me. I had a right to know. It’s my baby, too.” Masahiro seemed amazed by the idea that he was going to be a father, then stupidly proud, then relieved and smug. “This means you can’t break up with me.”

“You think my baby and I will live with you and Kikuko? So that she can be mean to it and you can ignore it while you make babies with her?” Being Masahiro’s concubine had seemed possible before Taeko had seen Kikuko at the wedding. It was unthinkable after last night. Taeko sat up and glared. “Never!”

“Be reasonable,” Masahiro said, impatient with her defiance, hurt because she was rejecting him. “What are you going to do if you don’t become my concubine?”

Terrified of the future, enraged by her helplessness, Taeko said, “I don’t know, and I don’t care! I’d rather die than be your concubine! I hate you!”

His gaze softened with painful tenderness. “You don’t mean that.” His tone reminded her of the times they’d lain in each other’s arms, whispering passionate vows of eternal love.

“Yes, I do!” Taeko had no way to salvage her pride except to lash out at Masahiro and hurt him as much as he’d hurt her. “You’re selfish, and dishonest, and stupid, and cruel.” He flinched at the insults; his expression grew more downcast with each. She tasted bitter satisfaction. “You’re dishonorable!”

It was the worst thing she could say to a samurai. The hurt in Masahiro’s eyes blazed into sudden fury. He raised his hand as if to strike her, then dropped it. They stared at each other, aghast.

“You want it to be over between us, all right, it’s over,” Masahiro said in a hard voice. “Do whatever you want. I’m going back to my wife.” He turned on his heel and stalked into the house without looking back.

Taeko collapsed on the ground and wept.

* * *

The courtyard of Lord Mori’s estate bustled with preparations for war. Troops swaggered out of the barracks, dressed in full battle regalia-iron helmets, chain-mail arm and leg guards, and armor tunics made of hundreds of leather-covered metal plates. They hoisted cannons and balls onto wagons. Grooms brought horses, also clad in armor, from the stables. Gunners rammed gunpowder down the barrels of arquebuses.

Yanagisawa stalked through the crowd, calling, “Where is Sano?”

He needed Sano to accompany the squadron that would seek out and kill Lord Ienobu. Sano was one of the few men in his faction who’d ever fought a real battle; most had only fought practice matches.

Nobody he asked had seen Sano since last night. Sudden suspicion propelled Yanagisawa inside the mansion, to the chamber that contained the secret exit. On the floor lay the two men he’d ordered to guard the exit in case Sano tried to use it again. The trapdoor was open. The men’s wrists and ankles were bound, their mouths gagged.

Ripping off the gags, Yanagisawa demanded, “What happened?”

“Someone hit me on the head,” mumbled one guard. The other said, “Me, too.”

Yanagisawa pictured Sano and Detective Marume sneaking up behind the guards, knocking them out, and tying them up. He knelt by the trapdoor and peered into the dark, silent tunnel. Where had they gone? For what purpose? Yanagisawa only knew that Sano had deserted him at this crucial moment.

“Sano!” he roared down the tunnel, and heard only the echo of his own furious voice.

* * *

As Sano and Marume raced through Nihonbashi, citizens hiding in their homes peeked fearfully through windows. People scurried in and out of the few shops open for business. Moorings along the canals were unoccupied, the boats and barges gone. Sano and Marume arrived at the Nihonbashi Bridge, the starting point of the Tōkaidō, the main highway that ran from Edo to points west. All the traffic was heading out of town, the commoners who hadn’t left yesterday fleeing before the war started. Porters carried baggage for rich merchant families in palanquins; poor folk with their worldly goods on their backs jostled priests, monks, and nuns.

“If I were a rat, I’d leave this ship, too,” Marume said.

Sano was sad to realize that even if he could leave-even if he didn’t have a mission to finish and a battle to fight-Reiko and Masahiro might not want to go with him. Things were that bad. Sano glanced at Marume. Even his old friend must have lost faith in him. But Marume willingly stuck with Sano while they went down in the sinking ship.

“Thank you,” Sano said. A master didn’t owe his retainer any thanks, but he wanted to tell Marume his loyal service was appreciated and he wasn’t taken for granted.

Marume shrugged and said, “Don’t mention it.”

They stopped outside a barbershop set amid inns, teahouses, and restaurants that catered to travelers. The door behind the blue curtain that hung halfway down the entrance was open. He and Marume entered the shop. Three men knelt on the floor by the hearth. An elderly, one-armed barber shaved the scruffy beard off a samurai who looked as if he’d been living rough. Two other samurai with the same unshaven, ragged appearance ceased their conversation. All the men trained unfriendly gazes on Sano and Marume.

“If you’re here to ask about Hirata- san , my answer is the same as last time,” the barber said. “I haven’t seen or heard from him.”

Sano had expected as much, but the barbershop was a haunt of itinerant martial artists, the only place he might hope to get news of Hirata. “And if you had, you wouldn’t tell me.”

The barber oiled his customer’s hair, twisted it into a topknot, tied it with twine, and trimmed the end with one deft hand. “You have your code of honor. We have ours.”

“If you do see Hirata, tell him I said he’s gone too far, and it’s time for him to turn himself in before he hurts any more innocent people.”

Concern showed on the barber’s lined face. “What’s he done?”

“He murdered a little boy,” Sano said.

The barber squinted at Sano and seemed to decide he was telling the truth. “I never thought he was capable of that.” His loyalty to Hirata visibly waned.

“That and probably worse. So if you’ve any news about him, you should tell me.”

“I’ve heard news,” the barber said reluctantly. “But not about Hirata. It’s his three friends.”

“You mean Deguchi, Kitano, and Tahara?” Marume asked.

The barber nodded. “Deguchi’s body was found on a hill outside town, four or five years ago. It looked like he’d lost a terrible fight. The last I heard of Kitano and Tahara was a while later. A friend of mine who was visiting Sky Mountain Temple saw them there. They disappeared. One night he woke up to hear the monks chanting prayers, and he smelled burning flesh. I think Kitano and Tahara are dead, too.”