The priests chanted louder, faster. Hands rubbed rosaries between palms. The incense smoke thickened, bittersweet and poisonous. Yanagisawa experienced a pang of fear. “Did you tell him that I’m back and we’re in contact?”
He risked a direct look at Yoritomo, who said, “No!” The young man’s expression begged Yanagisawa to give him some credit. “I made an excuse, then got away as fast as I could. But I’m sorry, Father—I’m not good at these political games. I think he suspects.”
“There’s no reason he should,” Yanagisawa assured his son. His cover was good; not a single rumor about his return from exile had leaked. But he’d underestimated Sano in the past, to his own detriment. He wouldn’t repeat the same mistake. “But we’ll play it safe. Don’t speak against Sano anymore.”
“I won’t.” Yoritomo spoke with obvious relief, even though he still reeked of unhappiness. After a pause he said, “There’s more bad news.”
“What?” Yanagisawa braced himself.
“Shigeta, Tamura, Mimaki, and Ota were captured today.”
Those men had numbered among Yanagisawa’s key underground soldiers. “How? Where?”
“Toda Ikkyu trapped them at a bathhouse.”
Yanagisawa stifled a curse. “What’s happened to them?”
“They’re being interrogated. That was all I could find out without asking too many questions and making people wonder why I’m curious.”
Yanagisawa wasn’t upset only because he’d lost some important men. “They know I’m here. If they should talk—”
“They won’t. They’re tough, loyal samurai.” Yoritomo sounded as if he were trying to ease his own mind as well as Yanagisawa’s. “They’ll die first.”
“Maybe,” Yanagisawa said, “but things are getting too hot. Sooner or later someone will be captured who will talk. We have to act fast.”
The chanting rose to a crescendo. The priests’ faces wore rapt, urgent expressions. “We can’t just stand by and hope Sano’s luck will turn bad,” Yanagisawa said. “It’s time for us to take a more active, personal role against him.”
“How?” With one word Yoritomo conveyed that he was unwilling yet committed to helping his father engineer his friend’s demise.
A priest near the altar beat a gong, its sound a quickening metal pulse. Yanagisawa thought about the events Yoritomo had reported. He mulled over different aspects of Sano’s murder investigation, spied one he could turn to his advantage, and smiled. “I have an idea. Listen.”
The next morning, while Hirata ate breakfast, Midori entered his chamber, holding a child by each hand. She said, “Good morning, Honorable Husband.”
Her manner was polite, aloof. The children gazed curiously at his bowl of fish topped with sliced ginseng root to stimulate mental and physical energy, fleece flower to strengthen the blood, and lycii berries to improve eyesight. They were somber in the presence of this strange father who ate weird food, said little, and did puzzling things.
“Good morning.” Hirata hadn’t seen Midori since yesterday. She hadn’t slept in their room with him last night. Since he’d returned home they’d shared a bed, but they’d not touched except by accident. Now she’d cut off even this physical contact. The distance between them had widened into an unbridgeable gulf.
“Excuse me for interrupting you,” Midori said.
Overnight something had changed in her. She was behaving as traditional wives did toward their husbands, with restrained civility. This disturbed Hirata more than her fits of temper. Was it a new tactic in this war of theirs? He studied Midori as he would an opponent on a battlefield. His trained perception sensed no aggression in her, no trick to goad him into another argument. Rather, her emotional energy had contracted within her, giving off neither heat nor light for him to read. Baffled, he settled on caution as his best course.
“That’s all right, you’re not interrupting anything,” he said. “Come in. Sit with me.”
“I will if you insist, Husband.” Midori was uncharacteristically meek, subservient. “But I have to feed the children.” They clung to her hands, regarding both parents in obvious fear of another quarrel.
Hirata was tempted to ask what she was up to, but his instincts warned him off. Revealing confusion to his opponent put a warrior at a disadvantage. He felt vexed because he could figure out any man during a sword fight but not his wife in his own home.
“Very well,” he said, matching her formal manner. If this was a game, two could play. “Was there something you wanted to say to me?”