“Prevent,” Ogyu repeated, amazed that a mere woman should presume to match wits with the shogun’s men. “But how?”
Lady Niu gave a flat, humorless laugh. “That is for you to decide, Magistrate Ogyu-san,” she said, emphasizing his title.
“Me? Why? How?” Ogyu’s queasy stomach churned at the thought of entering such a dangerous conspiracy. Imagining the ruin of his career and possibly even exile or death, he feared he would complete his disgrace by vomiting in front of her.
“Why should be obvious.” Lady Niu opened the gate. “And how is for you to decide.” She stepped outside. A maid came forward to help her into her waiting palanquin. Over her shoulder, she said, “Just remember the oil merchant, and I am sure you will think of something.” Then she was gone.
Ogyu closed the gate and leaned against it, eyes shut, as sour waves of panic and sickness weakened him. He took deep breaths through his mouth, fighting for control of his body and emotions. Remember who you are, he told himself. You have triumphed before; you will again. He remembered his rival for the position of chief page all those years ago; he’d framed the boy for thievery and secured the job himself. During his tenure as magistrate, he’d survived periodic attempts to unseat him; he’d used his connections and influence to have his detractors transferred to posts far from Edo. Now he tried to deny that Lady Niu’s was a more serious threat than any other he’d faced.
Gradually strength returned. Ogyu opened his eyes and staggered toward the door. He wondered why Lady Niu was so anxious for him to prevent the investigation and so willing to take extreme measures to see that he did. Then concern for himself overrode his curiosity. He must act now to avoid ruin. Miraculously, though, he felt less fear than he had before the meeting. The threat, its size and shape now defined, began to seem more manageable. He actually smiled as he entered his mansion. He was no fool, but a cunning and powerful magistrate. He always knew when a situation required a bold stroke instead of circumspect maneuvering. This instinctive knowledge was another of the talents that had enabled him to rise to his present position. However, as a man of refinement and fastidious tastes, he wouldn’t dirty his own hands.
To the servant who met him in the entrance way, Ogyu said, “Send for Yoriki Yamaga and Hayashi at once.”
He must give the orders. But others would act to prevent the metsuke investigation and to end Sano Ichirō’s interference in the Nius’ affairs once and for all.
Chapter 18
A sudden pounding of hoofbeats scattered the crowd in front of the noodle restaurant where Raiden sat finishing his midday meal. The sumo wrestler looked up from his bowl to see two horsemen in full battle regalia: richly decorated leather armor, metal helmets and face masks. Swords drawn, they brought their galloping mounts to a halt in front of him.
“You, there!” one of them called.
Raiden uttered a cry of dismay at the dust that the horse’s hooves had thrown onto his food. He glared up at the riders. Flinging the bowl aside, he stood, arms folded, legs apart.
“You mean me?” he growled at the lead rider.
“Yes. You.” The rider’s mask distorted his voice but did not disguise its implicit threat. Two cold eyes returned Raiden’s glare. “Are you Raiden, the wrestler?”
Raiden fell back a step. His anger subsided as the first prickings of fear started within him. He recognized the crests on the riders’ armor and the winged ornaments on their helmets. These were yoriki, whose rare appearances in the streets always meant big trouble for someone.
“What if I am?” Raiden said, trying to sound brave. But his voice quavered, and his heart began to thud.
Instead of answering, both yoriki jerked their horses’ reins. The horses pranced backward, clearing the street in front of Raiden. The yoriki who had spoken gave a piercing yelclass="underline"
“Take him!”
At once a pack of men descended on Raiden. Two grabbed his arms and pulled him away from the restaurant. The others surrounded him, clubs raised. Beyond them, Raiden saw three doshin with jitte in hand, four other men who each carried a stout ladder, and a crowd of avid onlookers.
Raiden’s confusion and panic increased. He struggled to free himself. “Hey, let me go. What are you doing? What do you want with me?”
“You’re under arrest for the murders of Noriyoshi, artist, and Yukiko, daughter of Lord Niu,” the lead yoriki shouted from astride his rearing horse. To the others: “Take him to jail.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Raiden protested. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
But even as he spoke, he experienced an uncomfortable, familiar, and queasy sensation of doubt. The demon that lived in his mind sometimes affected his memory; people often told him he’d done things of which he had no recollection. He might have killed those people, then forgotten-he’d certainly hated Noriyoshi enough. But the thought of jail alarmed him. He must convince the police of his innocence.
“You’ve got the wrong man,” he said.
Suddenly a blinding rage boiled up inside Raiden, just as it had at frequent, unpredictable intervals since he’d injured his head. His demon surfaced. With a roar of fury, Raiden threw his massive weight right, then left. The men holding his arms let go. He heard one of them crash into the restaurant amid the excited cries of the diners. Raiden charged at his other attackers. He swept one aside with his arm and downed another with a punch in the jaw. He plowed over the fallen men, kicking and trampling. But the doshin’s men outnumbered him. Their clubs began to rain blows upon him. Still Raiden fought. Possessed by the demon, he felt no pain and cared not whether he lived or died.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the demon departed. Fear and panic returned. “No!” Raiden screamed.
He flung his hands up to protect his face-too late. Pain flared on his cheeks and mouth. He tasted blood, spat out one of his teeth. The clubs cracked against his arms, ribs, and back. He went down, sobbing in terror now. Pinioned beneath the doshins men, he lay gasping and whimpering like a wounded animal. The shouts of the crowd rang in his ears. Someone bound his wrists. The rope cut into his flesh. Hands dragged him to his feet. The ladders interlocked around him, forming a cage. A jitte prodded his back.
“Walk,” its owner shouted in his ear.
Still whimpering in pain and terror, Raiden staggered forward. He ducked his head to hide his shame. He knew what he would see if he raised his eyes.
He’d seen parades like this before. The proud mounted yoriki in the lead; the doshin marching behind them; and last, the assistants with their bound and corralled prisoner. He’d joined the crowds who flocked to see the spectacle; he’d jeered and hurled rocks at the prisoners. Now he was the victim of those taunts. The rocks were aimed at him.
“This is a mistake,” he cried as a rock struck his brow. He cowered within his ladder-cage, but more rocks flew between the rungs to pound his chest and back. “I’m not a murderer.” He must make everyone listen and believe, before they reached the jail. Then it would be too late. “Please, let me explain.”
He lifted pleading eyes to his tormenters. His spirits sank at the sight of the angry mob. The leering faces, merciless stares, flailing arms. The mouths crying out for his blood. “Please… ”
Again the jab in the back. “Shut up and keep moving!”
After a while, Raiden’s awareness of the crowd, his captors, and even his predicament faded. The simple act of walking required all his thought and energy. Finally the procession halted, and Raiden found himself outside the gate of Edo Jail with no clear memory of the route they’d taken. Fresh terror restored his wits.