Laura Rowland - The Shogun's Daughter

Taeko couldn’t grasp the meaning of everything she’d heard, but she understood that the shogun’s daughter had been murdered by Yanagisawa, the bad man who was always causing problems for Masahiro’s family. She understood that Masahiro and his father were in trouble and proving that Yanagisawa had killed the shogun’s daughter would get them out of it. Interesting things seemed about to happen.

Masahiro rushed out of the room. Taeko felt her heart begin to sing and dance. She smiled. For as long as she could remember she’d liked Masahiro more than anyone else.

“Masahiro!” she called, tucking her book under her sash.

He paused and turned. “What?”

Taeko suddenly felt shy even though she’d known him all her life. He was so tall and strong and handsome! “Where are you going?”

“To do some investigating.”

Taeko scrambled to her feet. “Can I go, too?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You’re too young, and you’re a girl,” Masahiro said bluntly.

Taeko knew that Masahiro didn’t feel the same about her as she did about him. To him she was like his little sister-a playmate when he wanted one and a nuisance when he didn’t. Hurt by the knowledge, Taeko turned away from Masahiro.

“Hey,” Masahiro said, impatient but concerned. “What’s the matter?”

Taeko shook her head. If she tried to speak, she would cry, and if she cried, he would think she was even more of a baby than he already did.

“You’re unhappy because you can’t come with me,” Masahiro said, as if pleased to figure it out yet distressed because his rejection had hurt her. “But it could be dangerous where I’m going. Why do you want to go so badly?”

Taeko couldn’t admit that she wanted to be with him, to share in whatever he was doing, because she liked him. “I want to help,” she managed to say.

Masahiro laughed. It was a friendly laugh, but Taeko cringed with shame. “Well, there isn’t anything you can do. So you’d better stay home.”

As he walked away down the corridor, Taeko felt a spurt of the same stubbornness that made her keep painting even when her pictures weren’t any good and her mother told her to stop. Masahiro could tell her what to do, but she didn’t have to listen, did she? Maybe, if she followed him, she could find a way to help him with his investigation. If she did manage to help him, he might feel differently toward her, mightn’t he?

Nothing else she’d done had changed his mind about her. She had to try something new.

Taeko hurried after Masahiro.

Sano rode out the castle gate with Detective Marume and two troops, all he could take from home while leaving enough to guard his family. The avenue across the moat was crowded with beggars loudly soliciting alms. Nuns, priests, and monks vied with homeless refugees driven into the cities by the tsunami that had flooded their coastal villages. Sano noticed a family camped out on a blanket, surrounded by their few possessions. It was a woman, little boy and girl, and a man with bandaged stubs for legs. Sano felt a stab of pity and had to look away.

He and Marume crossed the avenue and rode through the daimyo district, past new buildings that had sprung up at estates flattened by the earthquake. The streets were choked with oxcarts hauling timbers and stone. Wheels dug deep ruts; flies swarmed over manure that reeked under the hot sun. Porters lugged rice bales, water casks, and bundles of food for the peasants who hammered, sawed, plastered, and tiled. In the estates that belonged to minor daimyo who governed small provinces, gaps in unrepaired walls exposed framework on bare foundations. In those owned by powerful lords of large, wealthy domains, nearly completed barracks surrounded stately new mansions. Lord Tsunanori, daimyo of Kii Province-also the husband of Tsuruhime and the son-in-law of the shogun-was in that fortunate category. But his stronghold was an enclave of gloomy quiet. Black mourning drapery hung over the double-roofed gate where Sano and his men dismounted from their horses.

“Where are the relatives, friends, and neighbors?” Marume asked. “Shouldn’t they be coming to pay their respects to the shogun’s dead daughter?”

“This house has been visited by smallpox.” Sano was glad that Marume was recovering from the loss of Fukida, his partner, who’d died during the earthquake. The two men had been like brothers. Lately Marume had begun to regain his robust physique and talk more. “People don’t want to risk infection.”

“What’s a little smallpox between friends?” Marume said with a touch of his old humor. “I’ll risk it with you anytime.”

“I’m glad I still have you for company.”

“I wonder why Yanagisawa let you keep me. Probably because he knew I would make too much trouble for him if he tried to take me away.”

Sano approached the two sentries at the gate, introduced himself, and said, “I’m here to see Lord Kii Tsunanori.”

A servant escorted Sano and Marume through the estate, to the martial arts practice ground. Straw archery targets stood at one end. Raucous laughter came from the other end, where a crowd was gathered around two people batting a shuttlecock back and forth with wooden paddles. The paddles were brightly painted with portraits of Kabuki actors, the shuttlecock fashioned from a hard, round soapberry and red feathers. Sano recognized the game as hanetsuki, traditionally played by girls at the New Year. But these players were a broad-shouldered samurai with a long upper body and short legs, dressed only in a loincloth, and a pretty young woman in a white under-kimono. The woman missed a shot.

“Take it off!” yelled the audience, comprised of other samurai and young women.

Giggling, the woman dropped her robe. She flaunted her naked breasts and shaved pubis. The audience roared. The usual penalty for missing a shot during hanetsuki was an ink mark on the face, but this couple had perverted the innocent game: Their penalty was removal of an item of clothing.

“It looks like they’re getting near the end of the game,” Marume said. “All that’s left to go is her socks and his loincloth.”

The male player hooted and pumped his fist in the air. The female didn’t seem to mind exposing herself. Her shaved pubis identified her as a prostitute; she was probably accustomed to such bawdy entertainment.

Sano cleared his throat and said, “Lord Kii Tsunanori?”

The audience quieted. The male player turned. Sano recognized Lord Tsunanori; they’d met a few times. Lord Tsunanori’s arrogant stance bespoke his pride in himself. Sano knew he was an excellent swordsman who often competed in, and won, tournaments. But his head didn’t match his strong physique. It had a squat shape with a roll of fat at the back of his neck. His regular features had an odd slackness. The skin drooped around his large, bold eyes.

“Chamberlain Sano?” Lord Tsunanori’s mouth was loose, as if the muscles didn’t have enough tone to hold the full lips closed. They gaped now, in dismay, because Sano had caught him in behavior inappropriate for a widower on the morning after his wife’s death. He pretended that the scene Sano had just witnessed had never happened. “Welcome. Let’s go inside.”

Sano didn’t tell Lord Tsunanori about his demotion. He let Lord Tsunanori think he was still the shogun’s second-in-command, backed by the full authority of the government. Lord Tsunanori led Sano and Marume toward the mansion. The naked woman tossed him his robe, and he put it on. It was heavy silk, printed in clashing red, orange, and purple, typical for rich, fashionable daimyo. Sano smelled sweat, alcohol, and wintergreen hair oil on him. They went into a reception room. A funeral altar held offerings of fruit, flowers, and wine, and a portrait of Tsuruhime. She’d been a plain woman; she had the shogun’s weak chin. She looked lonely.