Laura Rowland - The Cloud Pavilion

He'd lain awake for most of the night, his senses straining to detect the slightest hint of his unknown foe. Several times he'd sat up in bed, his heart pounding. But nothing happened except that Midori had grown tired of being awakened. She'd flounced off to sleep in another room, telling Hirata that he was imagining things.

Maybe he had been.

Maybe he still was.

Kuramae was known for its many shops, and particularly for toys. Hirata and his men steered their horses around pedestrians in streets devoted to dolls, kites, fireworks, and Dagashiya-san-"cheap-sweet shops"-that sold candy and inexpensive trinkets. Wandering peddlers hawked kokeshi dolls, and blowfish whistles. Hirata didn't think of buying presents to surprise his children, as he might have another time. His mind manufactured threats where none existed. Every casual glance from a stranger, every movement or flare of emotion within the crowds, wound his nerves tighter.

He knew that was exactly what his enemy wanted.

The mind was a warrior's most formidable weapon. When it was strong and steady, it could win battles against opponents with better combat skills. An expert martial artist could influence the mind of his opponent by instilling such fear that the opponent became weak, helpless, and easily defeated. Hirata had often used this strategy, but now he was its target. He felt his confidence draining away, his spirit weakening. Although he usually liked to travel alone, today he'd brought Detectives Inoue and Arai. Their company didn't bring him a sense of security, however; indeed, his wish for protection made him feel more vulnerable.

He and the detectives turned onto Edo Street, the main road that led to the northern highway. On the right, between the road and the river, stood the shogun's rice ware houses. On the left side of the road were teahouses operated by fudasashi, merchants who delivered the rice to the shogun's retainers for a commission, then bought the excess and sold it at a profit. They also loaned money, another business that made them hugely wealthy.

Hirata dismounted outside the biggest teahouse, which bore the name "Ogita" carved on a discreet wooden placard by the door. Inside, male voices shouted numbers. Hirata and his men entered a room where a rice auction was in progress. Arms raised, waving frantically toward a dais at the back of the room, merchants called out bids. Hirata watched the man at the center of the dais.

Ogita paced, shouted, and gestured like an actor in a Kabuki theater. He wasn't more than average height, but he stood tall. His brown kimono, surcoat, and trousers were made of cotton, in accordance with the sumptuary laws that reserved silk for the samurai class, but his garments had the sheen of highest-quality fabric. His bald head and long, fleshy face shone, too-with grease from a rich diet. His eyes were narrow slits that glinted with intelligence and didn't miss a thing as they darted back and forth, spotting bidders. He wasn't fat, but he had a bulging double chin that seemed to amplify his voice as he repeated bids and demanded a better price. His energy aura was bigger and stronger than anyone else's; he dominated the crowd. But as he studied Edo's top rice broker, Hirata made a troubling discovery.

He was usually good at reading people, but his sleepless night and his state of distraction broke the concentration he needed to assess Ogita. His fear had begun to affect his work. How was he going to handle this interrogation?

The auction ended. Losing bidders left to try their luck at other houses. Ogita and the winners closed their deals by applying signature seals to contracts written up on the spot by his clerks. Servants poured ritual cups of sake. When the customers left, Hirata signaled his detectives to wait by the door while he approached Ogita.

He introduced himself, then said, "I'd like a word with you."

The slits of Ogita's eyes opened wider in surprise. "What about?"

"I'm investigating a series of crimes," Hirata said. "I need your assistance."

If Ogita was alarmed, Hirata couldn't tell. "I'm at your service." Ogita spread his hands in the gesture of a man who had much to give and nothing to withhold.

"Then you'll be happy to answer a few questions." Bereft of the extra sense that usually aided him during interrogations, Hirata fell back on standard detective procedure. He asked Ogita his whereabouts on the days that Chiyo, Fumiko, and the nun had been missing.

He'd expected Ogita to claim he couldn't remember details from so long ago, but Ogita called to a clerk: "Bring me my calendar."

The clerk fetched a clothbound book and handed it to Ogita. Ogita paged to the dates Hirata had mentioned and reeled off a list of activities that included rice auctions at his teahouse, business meetings around the city, banquets, his son's wedding, and drinking parties with customers, friends, and government officials. He smiled and asked, "Is that good enough?"

"That only accounts for your days," Hirata said. "What about your nights?"

"I was at home with my family and my bodyguards." Ogita added, "A man in my position has plenty of enemies, and I'm a target for thieves. My bodyguards stay near me wherever I am."

Hirata didn't doubt that they would confirm his alibi. "May I ask why you're so interested in my business?" Ogita spoke with mild curiosity, without the caution of a man who was guilty of crimes and threatened by the law. Hirata despaired because he couldn't discern whether Ogita's manner was an act or not. Used to relying on the powers gained from strenuous training and magic rituals, he felt as if he'd regressed to his days as a mere, ordinary human.

"Three women were kidnapped, held prisoner, and raped during those time periods," Hirata said.

"And you think I'm responsible?" Ogita's expression said he thought the idea was so absurd that he couldn't bother to be offended by it. "I am certainly not."

"You haven't asked who the women are," Hirata pointed out. He wasn't so distracted that he hadn't noticed the omission. "Maybe that's because you already know."

Ogita glanced at the ceiling long enough to convey scorn. "No, I don't know, but I suppose I should find out who's been slandering me. Who are they?"

Was Ogita pretending ignorance? Hirata only wished he knew that. "One is the gangster Jirocho's daughter. The second is a nun named Tengu-in. The third is Lady Chiyo, wife of Captain Okubo and cousin of Chamberlain Sano."

The rice broker's greasy face showed no recognition, except a frown at Sano's name. "Well, my condolences to them, but I never laid a hand on them. I don't even know them."

"You should be familiar with Lady Chiyo," Hirata said. "Her father is Major Kumazawa. He's in charge of guarding the ware houses that hold the rice you sell."

"I know him. Not his daughter."

Hirata couldn't have said whether he was lying or telling the truth. "She grew up in the Kumazawa clan's house, which isn't far from here. You must have seen her."

"Seen her, maybe. Anything else, no." Ogita made a negative, adamant, slashing gesture with his hand. Annoyance crept into his expression. "If I want a woman, I don't have to kidnap or rape one. Here, let me show you something."

Ogita stalked to the dais and spread out the rice contracts that lay upon a table. He jabbed his ink-stained finger at the huge sums written on the contracts. "With what I earned today, I could buy ten women for each day of the year, to do whatever I want. You can't really think I would stoop to kidnapping anybody, especially a relative of a man important to my business."

Hirata couldn't deny that Ogita had a point. But a man could become sexually obsessed with a particular woman who was beyond his reach, and none other would satisfy. "There's a witness to the effect that you did."