Laura Rowland - The Incense Game

Tahara glanced at the bodies in the oxcart. “Taking earthquake victims to Edo Morgue? Isn’t that a bit menial for a fellow of your rank? What are you up to?”

“It’s confidential.” Hirata couldn’t tell anyone what was in store at the morgue, and he didn’t like sharing his business with these men. “What do you want?”

Kitano wagged his finger at Hirata. “There’s no need to be so abrupt with your friends.”

Tahara sidled off, drawing Kitano, Deguchi, and Hirata out of the oxcart driver’s earshot, then said, “It’s time for a ritual.”

Irritation jabbed Hirata. “Not again.”

“Why not?” Kitano said, a hint of pique beneath his amusement. “The rituals are the purpose of our secret society. That was explained to you before you joined.”

“When I joined your secret society, you explained that the purpose was to influence the course of fate and transform the world according to a cosmic plan for its destiny,” Hirata reminded Kitano. “You said you had an ancient book of magic spells that you inherited from Ozuno when he died. You told me that the spells are activated by the rituals you do. But that’s starting to sound like nonsense. Because you won’t show me this book. And because I’ve done five rituals with you and nothing has happened. We sat in the woods at night. We burned incense and chanted some gibberish. All we accomplished was to get stung by mosquitoes in the summer and freeze our behinds in the winter. So excuse me if I’m not eager for another ritual.”

Kitano’s eyes narrowed. Deguchi brooded. Tahara looked a little abashed as he said, “We also told you that we don’t control whether, or when, the rituals produce the magic. That’s up to the spirits that the rituals are designed to invoke.”

“That’s how it works,” Kitano said.

“How it doesn’t work, you mean,” Hirata retorted.

“Oh, it works,” Tahara said with an edge to his voice. “You saw for yourself, the day Yoritomo died.”

What Hirata had seen was the reason he’d believed the three men could do everything they claimed, the reason he’d joined their secret society. But his awe had faded. “You said the magic reveals actions for you to take, that might seem trivial but will change the course of fate. Yes, I believed you brought about Yoritomo’s death. But now I think it was just a lucky fluke.”

Temper ignited in the men’s eyes. Tahara said, “It was no fluke.” Their aura pulsed faintly, ominously.

“I’m not doing another ritual,” Hirata said, despite his fear. “I’m already in trouble with my master, for taking time off work and lying about what I’ve been doing. Count me out.”

“When you joined us, you swore to put the secret society ahead of all other things,” Tahara reminded Hirata. “You also swore that you wouldn’t reveal its business to outsiders.”

“Those are terms I never should have agreed to.” Hirata had wanted to acquire the supernatural powers the men had, but he’d also wanted to gain some control over them and protect Sano. Now he regretted that he’d let the society come between him and Sano, him and the Way of the Warrior. “Why do you need me, anyway? The three of you have so much power-aren’t you enough?”

They didn’t answer. Was that uncertainty Hirata sensed in them? He started to walk back to his horse and the oxcart. The three men moved so swiftly that their images blurred. As they blocked his path, their aura strengthened.

“You agreed nonetheless,” Tahara said. “And now that you’re in the society, you must participate in the rituals. If you don’t-”

Suddenly Hirata couldn’t speak or move. His body was stone, his breath caught. Tahara’s, Deguchi’s, and Kitano’s mental powers paralyzed him. Nearby, the oxcart driver napped and people huddled around the bonfires, unaware that anything unusual was afoot.

“We’ll give you a little time to think about what you want,” Kitano said.

Hirata’s heart pounded in his ears; his lungs struggled to suck air. Blackness rimmed his vision. His mind filled with the terrible knowledge of his helplessness, his mortality.

“Then we’ll talk about the ritual,” Tahara said.

A moment before Hirata lost consciousness, the men relaxed their power. His paralysis broke. He gulped huge, wheezing breaths, like a fish freed from a net and tossed back in water. The blackness receded. Flexing his muscles, he glared at his companions.

Tahara smiled. Mirth crinkled Kitano’s eyes. Deguchi’s eyes glinted with satisfaction.

“If you ever do that again, you’ll be sorry.” But Hirata knew he had no way to make them sorry. Three against one, they were too strong; even singly, they could each best him. “And I’m not doing any more rituals.”

He stomped past them, brushing his hands against his sleeve. But his bravado was false. While he rode away, the skin on his back flinched under their gazes. Inside he trembled with fear that joining the society was the worst mistake he’d ever made, that he’d gotten himself into something far beyond his ability to handle.

The way to Lord Hosokawa’s house led Sano and his troops along the Daiichi Keihin, the main highway to points south. Fewer scenes of destruction met them as they left the outskirts of the city. Sano felt as if an iron clamp around his chest had loosened. Inhaling air that wasn’t tainted with dust or the smell of decay, he rested his tired eyes on the forests, whose bare trees laced the rim of a blue, clear sky. He was surprised that beauty still existed in the world. But even here there were reminders of the disaster. Trees leaned where the earth had shifted. Sano and his men jumped their horses across cracks that split the road. At last they neared a group of samurai estates, private towns enclosed by barracks. The damage was slight here. If Sano squinted, he couldn’t see the cracks in the long walls of the barracks or the few broken roofs. Soldiers milled around outside. The illusion of normality was jarring.

The Hosokawa estate was the grandest in the area, with a gate made of wide, iron-studded planks. As Sano dismounted and approached the gate, two sentries scrambled out of an ornate guardhouse. They recognized Sano, greeted him, and bowed.

“Are any women in Lord Hosokawa’s clan missing?” Sano asked.

“Yes,” said a sentry. “Lord Hosokawa’s two daughters.”

Resigned to being the bearer of bad news, Sano said, “Then I must speak with Lord Hosokawa.”

He left his troops outside the estate while one servant escorted him into the mansion and another fetched Lord Hosokawa. Sano had barely entered the reception chamber when Lord Hosokawa rushed in. Lord Hosokawa was in his sixties, gray-haired and slight of build. He wore modest robes patterned in neutral colors instead of the opulent, fashionable garb that daimyo of his wealth usually affected. The lines in his face bespoke intelligence and constant worry. Two women, both in their late forties, followed.

Lord Hosokawa rushed through the polite ritual of greeting. “My wife,” he said, introducing the woman with gray hair, sallow skin, and drab brown clothes. He gestured toward the other, who was done up with dyed-black hair and full makeup, her robes in brighter shades of maroon and teal. “Tama, my concubine.” The women leaned toward Sano, their faces anxious, their hands wringing. “Honorable Chamberlain, have you news of my daughters?”

“I’m afraid so,” Sano said somberly. “We’ve found the bodies of two young women.”

“Why do you think they’re my daughters?” Lord Hosokawa looked torn between the hope that the missing had been located and the wish that the dead weren’t his kin.

“They were wearing these.” Sano displayed the sashes he’d brought.