Laura Rowland - The Iris Fan

Sano looked at Marume. They shared their relief that the secret society members were gone, the suspicion that Hirata had killed them, and the disturbing certainty that he, the only one left, was responsible for the boy’s murder. What else had the ghost compelled Hirata to do?

Back on the street, Marume said, “That was hardly worth knocking out Yanagisawa’s men. How are we supposed to investigate Hirata when we can’t even find him?”

Sano was discouraged, too, but he said, “Hirata left a track when he murdered Dengoro-the fingerprint. He may have left other tracks. I know of a place to start looking.”

* * *

Standing under the eaves of a teahouse, Hirata watched Sano and Marume emerge from the barbershop across the street and walk away. Sano is looking for me! I have to go to him!

You wanted to see Sano. You’ve seen him. General Otani clamped his will down on Hirata. That’s enough.

Hirata exerted his own will against the paralysis that kept him rooted to the spot. Sweat popped out on his forehead. His body wouldn’t move. Let me talk to him!

So that you can confess everything you’ve done? And tell him about me? General Otani’s contemptuous chuckle vibrated through Hirata. What good would that do?

Hirata tried to scream in frustration. General Otani silenced him as if with an iron hand that squeezed his throat. People passing by, hurrying to leave town, paid him no attention. I want to make a clean breast, Hirata pleaded. It was the least he owed Sano after years of deceit.

That might make you feel better, General Otani said, but suppose you did. Sano would try to interfere with my plans. I would have to make you kill him.

Despair fell upon Hirata like a landslide of boulders. This was the ultimate threat that the ghost held over him-that it would force him to hurt Sano or his family. He could live with anyone’s blood on his hands except theirs. The fight drained from Hirata. He would have fallen to the ground had not General Otani’s will kept his body standing upright.

Ah, you’ve come to your senses, General Otani said with satisfaction. Hirata’s paralysis dissipated. General Otani prodded him down the street with jabs of pain between his shoulder blades. No more wasting our energy on stupid resistance. Major events will soon transpire at the castle. We have to be there in case they need a nudge in the right direction.

“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.