He followed a dirty track through the slums of Odenmacho, which were carpeted with the remains of flimsy hovels once occupied by Edo’s poorest citizens. Emaciated men, women, and children crowded around fires. Haunted eyes gazed at Hirata from grimy faces. Suddenly Hirata felt the aura, a mighty, booming pulsation that countered the rhythm of his heart and tingled along every nerve. Its force made the air ring and shimmer like shattered crystal. His hand flew to the sword at his waist at the same time he fought instinctive terror and the urge to run. He reined in his horse, jumped down from the saddle. The cart driver halted his two oxen and beheld Hirata with puzzlement.
Three men appeared, some fifty paces away, as if they’d materialized out of the bonfire smoke. Side by side, they moved toward Hirata. Although they strolled at a leisurely pace, they covered the distance so fast that they arrived in an instant. Their aura dissipated as if sucked inside them by a vacuum. They, unlike other people, could turn it on and off. They stood before him, two samurai and a priest.
“Surprise,” the samurai in the middle said. With his athletic physique and strong, regular features, he looked the perfect samurai. His flowing dark gray coat and trousers swirled around him in a wind of his own creation. A twinkle in his deep black eyes, and a left eyebrow that was higher than the right, gave him a rakish charm.
“Greetings, Tahara- san,” Hirata said.
Tahara was the trio’s leader, the one Hirata feared most, although he was almost as afraid of the others. They were the only men in Japan capable of defeating him in combat. His friendship with them felt as hazardous as holding a wasp in his mouth.
“Fancy running into you,” Hirata said. “I haven’t seen you in, what, seven days?”
“Eight.” Tahara’s eyes twinkled brighter: He knew that Hirata knew the exact length of the time since their last meeting. “Sorry to make myself so scarce.” His voice had a curious quality that was at once smooth and rough, that brought to mind a stream flowing over jagged rocks. “I’ve been busy guarding the Tokugawa rice warehouses.” His clan were retainers to the daimyo of Iga Province, known for its tradition of mystic martial arts practiced by the ninja, a cult of peasant warriors adept at stealth. The daimyo had loaned Tahara to the government for security work.
“Pity the poor thief who tries to get past you,” Hirata said.
Tahara, who could kill a man as quickly and effortlessly as look at him, shrugged with a modest smile.
Hirata turned to the other samurai. “What have you been up to, Kitano- san?”
“Leading Lord Satake’s fire brigade.” Kitano Shigemasa was a retainer to Lord Satake. He wore the iron helmet and armor tunic of a soldier. Although he was in his fifties and gray-haired, his figure was robust. His eyes crinkled as if in a smile, but the rest of his face, a mesh of scars, remained immobile. As a youth, he’d been wounded in a drunken brawl, his face badly cut. The cuts had damaged his facial nerves. “Can’t let the rest of Edo burn down.”
The government delegated the responsibility for fighting fires to the daimyo, whose efforts had proved woefully inadequate during the earthquake. Since then, they’d much increased their manpower and vigilance.
“And you, Deguchi- san?” Hirata turned to the third man.
Deguchi was a Buddhist priest from the Z o j o Temple district. His maroon cloak covered a saffron-dyed robe. His shaved head was bare. Thirty years old, he could pass for twenty or forty. Although his long, oval face was plain-the eyes heavily lidded, the nose flat, and mouth pursed-he had a haunting, luminescent beauty. His eyes glowed as they met Hirata’s.
“He’s been giving charity to the earthquake victims,” Kitano said. Deguchi never spoke; he was mute. Tahara had explained to Hirata that Deguchi was an orphan who’d lived on the streets, working as a prostitute. A customer had strangled him and damaged his throat.
And Hirata had been wounded in the leg and crippled when he’d taken a blade for Sano. He and Deguchi and Kitano had something in common-a life-changing injury. Ozuno had helped them overcome their handicaps. Hirata couldn’t tell what, if any, injury Tahara had sustained.
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
