Bundori: A Novel Of Japan

of money. Last year, I believe.”

No doubt he could name the exact date and amount if he chose, Chugo thought as hatred’s bitter swell filled his throat. The merchant paid scrupulous attention to every business detail. The knowledge that Matsui was toying with him added to his anger, as did Matsui’s next remark.

“Even you, cousin, must admit that we merchants are of some use, no?”

The vulgar oaf would remind him of the shameful fact that while the samurai ruled the land, the merchants controlled its wealth. However, Chugo’s family hadn’t forseen the double-edged consequences of Matsui’s defection from the samurai ranks when they’d first received news of it.

Chugo had been fourteen-a year short of manhood and his career with the Edo Castle guard. On that summer morning, he’d been practicing swordsmanship in the barracks with three other young samurai when a castle messenger ran up to his family’s quarters. When his father came to the door to receive the scroll, Chugo intensified the swordplay, battering mercilessly at the other boys with his wooden sword. He barely heard their cries or felt their counterblows. He knew only the desire to excel, to win, to show his father his worth.

Realizing that the game had turned deadly serious, Chugo’s opponents fled, screaming. Feeling like the great General Fujiwara, whose blood ran in his veins, Chugo looked to his father for praise.

His father stood on the veranda. Having just gone off duty, he still wore full armor. The open scroll dangled from his hand. His troubled gaze passed straight through his son.

“Your cousin Minoru has abandoned his post as warden of His Excellency’s estate in north Kanto and opened a sake brewery in Ise,” he said.

Contempt harshened his voice, but his strange smile bespoke pleasure as well as distaste; his eyes gleamed with righteous satisfaction. “Out of some remaining vestige of decency, Minoru has dropped the Fujiwara name-for which we can be thankful-and now calls himself Matsui.”

Chugo’s father had schooled him in Fujiwara clan history from an early age. He understood that his cousin’s shameful act, while disgracing the clan, elevated his own branch within its hierarchy. He grinned, triumphant as though he’d won another victory.

Then his father’s eyes focused on him, and Chugo saw himself as the older man must: a lanky, barefoot youth with a silly wooden sword. Through the misery of his shame and inadequacy, he heard his father’s voice.

“It’s up to us to uphold the family honor. You’ll have to do more than win children’s games if you expect to match General Fujiwara’s standard.”

Chugo heard similar admonitions with increasing frequency throughout his young manhood, because his clan’s glee over Matsui’s disgrace soured as they watched him grow ever richer and more influential. While they scrimped to meet rising expenses with their fixed stipends, Matsui lived extravagantly. The Chugo, as guard captains, saw the shogun during large ceremonies and business meetings; Matsui enjoyed private audiences. His position as financial agent of the Tokugawa put him closer to the seat of power than Chugo would ever get. With a mixture of fury and humiliation, he realized that his wayward cousin had bettered him.

Now Chugo fumed, remembering the debts he and his lord owed Matsui. He usually sublimated his desire for battle-a samurai’s rightful work-in the meticulous execution of his duties. But now, with keen pleasure, he felt the power that always flowed through his body the instant before he performed an iaijutsu exercise. He imagined his hand flashing to his sword. He saw the blade whip free of the scabbard and blur across space, yearned for the sensation of sharp steel against flesh and cartilage. In his mind, he saw Matsui fall dead, and himself the victorious warrior…

A needle of fear pierced Chugo’s fantasy as he studied the stout, smiling, and still-very-much-alive merchant. Was Matsui calling in his loan? He couldn’t possibly pay now. He had heavy expenses and no ready cash.

“Oh, you’re right on schedule with your payments, Chugo-san. There’s nothing to discuss… about that, anyway.”

A spate of dread swept away Chugo’s relief. Only his samurai stoicism enabled him to feign indifference. “Then what do you want?”

Matsui’s jovial manner fell away like a dropped screen, revealing the shrewd trader who had made fortunes for himself and his clients. “We must discuss the Bundori Murders, and how to protect ourselves.”

“I don’t understand,” Chugo stalled.

Suddenly his need for liquor almost overcame his distaste for Matsui’s hospitality. He longed to gulp the heated sake: potent, heady. Because of course he understood Matsui’s meaning.

“Sosakan Sano has learned about General Fujiwara,” Matsui said, “and about the feud that ties him-and us-to the murders. He’s talked to you, too, hasn’t he?”

“How did you know?” Chugo demanded, alarmed both by Matsui’s knowledge and the fact that Sano had spoken to the merchant. Sano must truly believe he would find the murderer among General Fujiwara’s descendants. What a disaster, should this information become public! “Who told you?”

Matsui shrugged impatiently. “I have many clients in the castle, whose debts I forgive in exchange for favors. Who told me isn’t important. This is: Did you tell Sosakan Sano the family secret?”

Chugo barely managed to contain his shock at this blatant mention of the secret, passed down through the generations since General Fujiwara’s death. It was the one tie that bound their family’s estranged branches. Chugo could remember vividly the day his father had bequeathed it to him.

It was the first day of the seventh month, ten years ago. He’d succeeded to his retired father’s post as captain of the guard five years previously. Inspecting the castle’s outer perimeter on that hot, wet afternoon, he’d turned at the sound of his name to see his father hobbling toward him down the stone-walled passage.

“Otosan, what is it?” Alarmed, Chugo hurried to meet the old man, who had never before interrupted his duty.

His father waved aside the supporting hand Chugo offered. “Son, you’ve followed the Way of the Warrior in a manner that does our clan proud. Now I must tell you something of great importance. Come.”

Although consumed with anxious curiosity, Chugo knew his father wouldn’t speak until ready. They walked slowly along the ascending passage. The drizzle trickled off Chugo’s armor and the old man’s cloak. Moisture steamed up from the ground. Low clouds hovered over the castle, weighty as Chugo’s father’s unvoiced message. They stopped outside the northwest guardtower, the old man’s favorite spot, and he spoke in hushed, somber tones.

The secret’s immensity left Chugo breathless with shock and outrage at the terrible wrong that General Fujiwara had sought so valiantly to redress. And, as his father continued, he sensed the huge responsibility that came with his new knowledge.

“As head of the family after my death, you must pass the secret on to your own eldest son before you die. Except for then, you must speak of it to no one, not even your cousins, who have also received the knowledge from their fathers. You must keep the secret alive so that some day, when the time is right, one of General Fujiwara’s descendants will complete the noble mission that he began.”

“Yes, Otosan.”

Dazed, Chugo answered automatically, wondering when the time would be right, and if it was he who would fulfill their clan’s destiny. In the years that followed, he’d guarded the secret zealously, awaiting some signal to act. How dare Matsui suggest that he would reveal the secret to Sosakan Sano?

“Of course I didn’t tell him,” Chugo said sharply.

“Good.” Matsui refilled his cup. “Now I want your promise that you’ll continue to keep quiet. Sosakan Sano has guessed that the murders originate in our family’s past. But without knowing the motive behind them, he can’t build a good case against us. As long as he never learns our secret, he can never harm us.”

He added, “And if you’re considering using it to divert his suspicion onto others, remember that the secret incriminates you as well.”

The unjust accusation and the prospect of colluding with Matsui curdled Chugo’s stomach, even as he realized the necessity of a conspiracy. He knew he would never tell the secret, but he needed assurance that the dishonorable, untrustworthy merchant wouldn’t, either.

“I have nothing to fear,” he said in futile protest. “I have an alibi that no one will ever break. Are you afraid because you can’t say the same?”

Matsui let loose a hearty peal of laughter. “Don’t be ridiculous. My bodyguards can vouch for me. But I have another alibi that’s even better: my innocence. I’m no murderer.”