The Incense Game (16 page)

“Honorable Chamberlain?”

It wasn’t a woman. It was Minister Ogyu. He removed his hat and used his sleeve to wipe sweat off his shaved crown as he moved toward Sano. His topknot protruded above a round-cheeked face. With his prominent paunch, he reminded Sano of sumo wrestlers. He walked with their heavy trudge. But he was shorter than average, and in his forties, he was too old to be a wrestler.

“Greetings, Minister Ogyu,” Sano said. They exchanged bows while Sano’s troops waited in the distance. “I’m here to inspect the academy.”

“A thousand thanks for coming. I wish I could show you something better.” Ogyu’s voice was deep, as if it emanated from his belly rather than his throat. Maybe he wanted to compensate for his small stature. His face was as smooth as a child’s, but a patch of fuzzy mustache, like black moss, shaded his upper lip, as if his valet didn’t shave him closely enough. Sano had noticed this before, when they’d met at ceremonies and lectures.

“I wish I could send you more help.” Sano regretted that the country’s only center for higher learning was gone.

“Well, there are more important things to fix. Even though His Excellency has said that the Seido is a top priority.” Ogyu smiled wryly. His lips were full, his teeth stubby but even. His pleasant manner didn’t show in his gaze, which had a cool opaqueness that Sano had also previously noticed.

“I see you’ve started the work on the academy yourself,” Sano said.

“Yes, well, my staff and servants and I haven’t much else to do,” Ogyu said, “with the lessons and lectures suspended.”

Sano thought Ogyu’s attitude was a big improvement over Priest Ryuko’s. He felt sorry for Ogyu, who had lost his life’s work, perhaps permanently.

“Eventually we’ll get help with clearing away the ruins,” Ogyu said. “In the meantime, we’re salvaging everything that’s usable. Wood and roof tiles will be hard to come by when the rebuilding boom starts.”

He spoke with confidence that the universe would conspire in his favor. Sano reflected that in the past the universe had done so. Ogyu’s family were hereditary Tokugawa vassals of low rank. His father had been a mere secretary at the castle, but was ambitious. Sano had heard that the man had gone deeply into debt to hire an acclaimed tutor to teach his only child. The tutor also gave lessons to the shogun. Ogyu had proved himself to be a genius at interpreting and writing about the Confucian classics. The shogun liked to surround himself with learned young men, and the tutor had recommended Ogyu, who became one of the shogun’s favorite scholars. Rumor said Ogyu had helped the shogun with his lessons and even written his lectures for him. When the Seido had been built, and the shogun needed someone to run it, he’d picked Ogyu.

Realizing that the tour of inspection, his pretext for coming, was finished, Sano sought to keep the conversation going and lead into the investigation. “I understand you’re living here because you lost your house. It must be hard.”

“I’m fortunate nonetheless,” Ogyu said. “So many people have lost much more than I have. Including their lives.”

These words gave Sano the opening he needed. “I’m sorry to say that I’ve heard of another death. An incense teacher named Usugumo was found yesterday.”

“Gods be merciful. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Ogyu seemed genuinely surprised and grieved.

Sano wondered if he already knew Usugumo was dead because he’d killed her. Maybe he was surprised because after a month had passed since the earthquake and she hadn’t been found, he’d believed she never would be. Maybe he was grieved because he’d thought he was safe and now feared he wasn’t.

“Did you know her?” Sano asked.

“Yes. I used to take lessons from her.” Ogyu admitted it readily, but maybe he thought Sano could find out that he’d been Usugumo’s student and realized that if he tried to hide it, he would look suspicious. But he appeared more chagrined than guilty. “I feel bad because I didn’t check on Madam Usugumo after the earthquake. But there were so many other things to do. She slipped my mind.” Again, he seemed sincere, but Sano noticed that the emotions his words professed showed only in the flexing of his facial muscles. His eyes held their cool reserve.

“This may ease your mind,” Sano said. “The earthquake didn’t kill Usugumo. She died before it happened.”

“Oh?” Ogyu sounded surprised, curious. “How?”

“She and two of her pupils were poisoned during an incense game.” Sano didn’t mention the identities of the other women. As he explained that Hirata had found the bodies in the sunken house, he watched Ogyu closely. Ogyu didn’t panic the way Priest Ryuko had. Maybe he’d prepared himself for the possibility that the crime would come to light and he would be accused.

“Have you any idea who did it?” Ogyu asked. “Is Hirata-
san
investigating the murders?”

“No.” Sano had thought of putting Hirata in charge of an official investigation instead of trying to keep it secret. After all, solving crimes was Hirata’s job. But Sano had decided not to risk having Lord Hosokawa think he wasn’t handling it personally or to make the investigation public and risk the secret behind it coming out. “The police will investigate the murder eventually. Since we’re on the subject, though, I may as well take a statement from you and save you the trouble of talking to the police later.”

“Of course.” Ogyu spoke as if glad to cooperate.

Sano felt a prickling sensation on his nape. He turned and looked across the courtyard. A flap had been raised on one of the tents. A woman stood in the opening, watching him. With one hand she held the flap up. Her other arm hugged a little girl and boy. Her face was narrow, sharp-chinned, and somber. She realized that Sano had seen her, and her eyes widened like those of a cornered animal. She dropped the flap, hiding herself and the children.

“That’s my family,” Ogyu said.

Sano turned to see that for once there was emotion in Ogyu’s eyes—affection. Ogyu said, “I tried to send them to stay with relatives. But my wife wanted to be with me.”

“Tell her she can join us if she likes.” Sano wondered if Lady Ogyu knew anything about the murders.

“Thank you, but she would prefer not to,” Ogyu said. “She’s very shy.” His gaze turned opaque again. “I can give you my statement now, if you like.”

“Thank you.” Sano asked, “How long had you known Usugumo?”

“Not long. I only had six or seven lessons.”

“What were your relations with her?”

“Strictly business.” Ogyu glanced toward the tents.

Sano wondered if he didn’t want his wife to hear the conversation. But he didn’t have the sly, guilty, or lascivious look of a man discussing a paramour. “What did you talk about with Madam Usugumo?”

“Besides incense? Nothing that I can recall. The art of incense is a form of meditation. It deserves one’s full attention. We observed the rule against small talk during lessons.”

Sano remembered as much from the lessons he and Reiko had taken from another teacher. Incense games were social, but not parties for chatting. “When was the last time you saw Madam Usugumo?”

“At my last lesson. During the eleventh month of this year, I believe.”

That jibed with the notes in her book. “Was there anything unusual about it?”

“Unusual, how?”

“Did she seem worried? Or upset?”

“No. But if she was worried or upset about something, she wouldn’t have told me. I was a pupil. She was the teacher.”

For a teacher to confide in a pupil went against custom. For a commoner to impose her problems on a high-ranking samurai employer did, too. “Do you know if she had any enemies?”

Ogyu shook his head. “I would assume that if she did, they were people I don’t know. We didn’t move in the same circles.”

“What about her other pupils? Did you meet them?”

“No. I took private lessons. Nobody else was there.”

Sano thought of Priest Ryuko. Ogyu certainly knew him. Sano had seen the two talking at ceremonies. Maybe Ogyu didn’t know that the priest had numbered among Usugumo’s pupils. Sano wondered what, if anything, the connection between the two men signified. But it didn’t appear that Ogyu would have met Lord Hosokawa’s daughters.

“Wait.” Ogyu raised his gloved finger, which was short and thick like his body. “There was someone else there. I just remembered. Usugumo’s apprentice. He helped her prepare for the lessons. A young man named Korin.”

This was the second time the apprentice had cropped up. Sano hoped Detective Marume would find him. He could be a good witness, if not a suspect. Right now Sano could do with either. It appeared that he wouldn’t get much of worth from Minister Ogyu—at least not as long as he maintained the pretense that Ogyu was just assisting with a future police inquiry and not under suspicion.

“Thank you for your time,” Sano said. “I’ll send some workers and funds your way as soon as they’re available.”

“Thank you. I hope the police can find out who killed Usugumo. She was a fine woman who didn’t deserve to die.” Again, Ogyu spoke with sincerity.

Sano wondered if those opaque eyes saw straight through him. Leaving the courtyard, he glanced at Lady Ogyu’s tent. She must have overheard his whole conversation with Minister Ogyu. Did her interest in it extend beyond a wife’s nosiness about her husband’s affairs? Although tempted to question her, Sano didn’t want to risk seeming too eager for information and causing the wrong people—namely Ienobu and the shogun—to get wind of it and ask why. Sano would have to wait to satisfy his curiosity until after Reiko talked with Lady Ogyu.

17

WHEN HIRATA LEFT
Sano’s estate, he knew he should begin questioning people who were associated with Priest Ryuko and Minister Ogyu, eliciting information that would indicate whether one of them was the murderer. He knew that with so many people displaced, it would take a while to locate witnesses, and he would lose time tracing people who turned out to have died in the earthquake. But he couldn’t get out of the ritual. If he reneged on his promise, Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi would force him to participate. Recalling the moment they’d levitated the house out of the ground, he feared them more than ever, and he needed to arm himself with knowledge before he saw them again.

Hirata rode through the falling snow along desolate, rubble-strewn streets to the huge camp in Nihonbashi. He paused on its edge, gazing at the tents, concentrating on the auras given off by the people. They conveyed so much pain, fear, and grief that he wanted to suppress his perception, but he was looking for someone, and this was the quickest method.

He visited three other camps before he found the men at one near the Sumida River. In the twilight, bonfires colored the falling snowflakes orange. The men had pitched their tent at the edge of the camp. Their tent was made of two lattice partitions leaned together and covered with tatami mats. Blankets hung over its ends. Smoke tendrils rose from an opening on top. It radiated a powerful, calm aura spangled with cheer, which was familiar to Hirata. He also perceived another aura he’d never encountered before, equally powerful, humorous. Hirata cautiously approached.

“Greetings, Hirata-
san
,” called a male voice from within.

There was no use sneaking up on his fellow mystic martial artists. Hirata lifted the blanket. Warmth heated his face. He smelled the sour tang of pickled cabbage and radish and the reek of salted fish. “Hello, Iseki-
san
.”

An oil lamp illuminated two kneeling men. One held a bowl and chopsticks. The other lifted a teapot off a brazier. He was in his seventies, his face wrinkled like crumpled paper. He had only one arm.

“Join us,” he said

Hirata squeezed himself into the tent’s small space, amid various cloth-wrapped bundles. He accepted a bowl of tea that Iseki deftly poured with his single hand. “I’m glad to see you’re alive. I went to your barbershop, but it was in ruins.”

The barbershop had been a favorite haunt of mystic martial artists, located north of the Nihonbashi Bridge near the center of the national messenger system, from which the government dispatched runners to carry documents between cities. Iseki the barber had gleaned the latest news from the messengers and given it to his customers. The earthquake had halted the messenger system, which had only just resumed with limited service, and the mystic martial artists had lost their gathering place.

Iseki grinned and raised his tea bowl to Hirata. “I’m tough. An earthquake wrecked my barbershop. An earthquake crushed my arm and ended my fighting days. Neither of them managed to kill me, though.”

“Are you going to introduce me to your friend?” Hirata asked.

“Oh, pardon my bad manners. This is Onodera.”

Hirata exchanged polite bows and greetings with the man, who was in his forties but fit and muscular. Onodera wore a round black skullcap, a thigh-length kimono and loose breeches printed with arcane symbols, cloth leggings, and straw sandals. A short sword hung from the sash around his waist. Beside him was a wooden chest, its shoulder harness decorated with orange bobbles. Costume and equipment marked him as a
yamabushi
—an itinerant priest from a sect that blended Buddhism, Shinto religion, and Chinese magic.

“I’ve heard of you,” he told Hirata. He had a round face with eyes that disappeared into slits as he smiled. “The best fighter in Edo.”

Modestly declining the praise, Hirata knew who the best fighters in Edo really were, although he’d yet to see them strike a single blow. “I’ve heard of you, too. You protect villages from bandit gangs.”

“None other,” Onodera said cheerfully.

“What brings you here?”

“I was passing through Edo when the earthquake hit,” Onodera said. “I figured I would stay and see if I could help.”

“Well, I’m glad to find you and Iseki-
san
,” Hirata said, “because I need your help.” He spoke reluctantly because it felt weak and shameful. But he didn’t know what else to do.

“Who do you want me to fight?” Onodera put down his bowl, ready to dash into battle.

“No one.” At least not yet. “It’s information I need.”

“Information about what?”