I. Parker: The Emperor's woman

It started snowing heavily as he made his way uphill with his burden. At first he took little notice, except that the drifting flakes cooled his skin. She was infernally heavy and awkward to hold because of her pregnancy. Besides, her long hair and parts of her clothing swept the ground and kept getting caught on branches. He would have taken her clothes off, but he needed to make this look like suicide.

He paused a moment to shift his load and use the silk of her full sleeve to mop his face. The snow was falling more heavily. He glanced up the stony path leading to the cliff. Already the dirt between the stones was turning white. He realized that this sudden snowfall was a very good thing and smiled. If he left any tracks, the snow would soon hide them. There would be nothing to show that she had not walked this steep path by herself before jumping off the cliff. Luck was with him. In the end, it was always so. He started climbing again. Best do this quickly and be on his way.

When he reached the promontory, out of breath and tired, he let his burden slide down and looked around. He was well above the villa, whose roof he could not see from here. He liked the loneliness of the spot. A hermit would have built his hut here to meditate in solitude on the Buddha. On all sides rose forested hills, hazy and immaterial behind the veil of falling snow, and the rock outcropping before him jutted over an abyss. Some fifty feet below him, a small brook splashed over and around rocks toward the valley. The sound of the waterfall that fed the brook blotted out all other small noises, even his heavy breathing.

This made him look back nervously, but all was empty except for him, the woman on the ground, and the drifting snow. Already snowflakes clung to her hair and turned the deep blue of her silk gown pale. Her face-what he could see of it-was as white as the snow. There was a little blood in her hair, not much. He had been lucky to hit her so as not to break the skin and leave stains in the house.

Her eyelids fluttered. He gasped. She was coming round. He must hurry. Moving cautiously up to the edge on the slippery rocks, he peered over. He had to make sure she would not catch on something on the way down and survive the fall. Having selected the best spot, a sheer drop fifty feet to the bed of the brook, he turned back, grasped her under the arms and dragged her to the edge. When he released her, she gave a small moan and raised one arm. Shifting her body, he got ready to give it a hard push. At that moment, she opened her eyes and looked up at him.

If she was pleading, it was too late. He was frightened into sudden action; she slipped forward and was gone.

Stunned by the momentary eye contact, he crouched near the edge. When she hit the rocks below, the sound was very small, almost lost in the rushing of the waterfall.

Then there was only the sound of the water and the silent falling of the snow. Cold crept up his hands and knees.

He shivered and slowly crawled backwards, then straightened up, and stood. The snow fell thickly, in large wet flakes. With darkness, it would become cold, and by morning the world would be covered with in a blanket of purest white.

He wiped the sweat from his face and found that his hands were shaking. That look she had given him. They said the ghosts of the murdered pursued their killers. With a muttered prayer, he started back down the path, slowly at first, and then faster, until he was running, slipping on the wet stones, brambles ripping at his clothes and hands.

Akitada’s day began quite pleasantly. The sun had made its appearance, the children had woken them early, and now Akitada stood on the veranda, watching as they chased his wife and each other around the garden. Birds chirped and the cherry tree’s branches were thick with buds. From the front of the house came the sound of barking.

Tamako, raising her long gown and showing smooth legs and bare feet, passed him. She was rosy with exercise and called out, “The wisteria is alive. And I think it will bloom,” then squealed as Yasuko snatched at her long hair. Yoshitada, who was still too slow to be a real contender, burst into loud giggles and toddled after them.

Akitada strolled over to the wisteria, so pregnant with significance for their marriage, and studied it attentively. Tamako was right. A good omen.

He had presented her with a blossom from the ancestor of this plant on the morning after their marriage night. It had come from her own home which had been destroyed by the fire that took her father’s life. Years later, when they lost Yori, their first son, to smallpox and grew apart and bitter, the transplanted wisteria had declined and stopped blooming. Since then, both Tamako and Akitada had checked it every spring for signs of new life on the gnarled old trunk.

Whistling softly to himself, Akitada walked to his study, where Saburo awaited him with tea and hot rice gruel. Saburo, a disfigured ex-monk, had taken over many of Seimei’s functions after the old man had died.

Akitada thanked him and received in return the grotesque grimace that was Saburo’s smile. Saburo was indefatigable in his efforts to make himself useful and to prove a faithful servant. In spite of his unsavory past, Akitada had not regretted taking him on.

When his workday at the ministry began, Akitada was still in an excellent mood. He managed to finish a thick stack of dossiers before he was called to the minister’s office. Gathering them up, he went to see Fujiwara Kaneie.

Kaneie was a privileged member of the ruling clan and had managed to obtain his lucrative assignment without much effort or talent for it. The upper positions in the government were riddled with such men, while the actual work of the government was carried out by underlings or a few career officials in the lower ranks. Kaneie was one of the better senior officials in that he readily admitted his shortcomings and left the work to abler people like Akitada. He was also a friendly and affable man.

This day he seemed abstracted. He signed and stamped the last document with his seal, then handed the sheaf of papers back to Akitada. “Have you heard the news about Prince Atsuhira?” he asked.

Akitada searched his memory for Atsuhira and found, hazy by the distance of years, a rather pleasant young man he had met at one of his friend Kosehira’s parties. But, no, there had been a more recent incident. It had involved the prince’s love affair and a case of blackmail. He said, “I haven’t heard anything recently. I believe we met many years ago.” He paused, adding a little doubtfully, “I liked him then.”

The minister nodded. “Yes, he’s a very pleasant man. Married to one of the Fujiwara daughters. I cannot believe the tale. Nobody thought he had it in him.”

“Had what in him?”

“The kind of ambition that makes men overreach themselves. We all assumed he’d given up any hopes of succession, but here his name is linked to a very unsavory business. It may also involve his wife’s father and uncle. And several other high-ranking men as well. A major conspiracy, if one can believe it.”

Akitada tried to recall what he knew of the prince’s marriages. As a potential heir, he had taken one of the daughters of the present chancellor to wife. He said, “He seemed unambitious when I first knew him. But that was a long time ago, and his name has come up once before. Is he in serious trouble?”

It had been six years ago when the prince’s uncle, Bishop Sesshin, had contacted Akitada because he had feared one of the prince’s love letters had fallen into the wrong hands. The letter had contained some very incautious remarks about His Majesty.