CHAPTER TWELVE
TEMPLE
Hiroki knew he should have stayed at home, and let Tetsuo and Shiro handle today’s investigation. His concerns about the effect riding would have on his knee had been borne out, and the pain was making it hard to think. And he would not be able to infiltrate the temple grounds anyway, because such work required a flexibility he did not currently possess.
But the urge to do something, anything, had overtaken him with the morning rice. And so here he was, his knee swaddled in heavy, wet wraps that made bending it a painful chore, perched atop a puzzled horse who could not understand its rider’s abnormal clumsiness.
The Miidera temple complex was—or so its inhabitants would have him believe—an oasis of calm in a shattered world. A person could only truly consider the temples of Mount Hiei to be calm and serene if he ignored their history of greed and blood-drenched acquisition, Hiroki thought. He said nothing to his companions, but wondered how Tetsuo and Shiro were responding to their return visit to the enormous number of so-called retirement villas encircling the forest-shaded bulk of the sacred mountain. These villas were home to thousands of supposedly retired holy men who were for the most part Buddhist in name only. Many were, or worked for, moneylenders who preyed on all classes of people from the capital.
As for their brothers on the mountain, the monks of Mount Hiei had intervened in the affairs of the world numerous times before and Hiroki had no doubt they would do so numerous times in the years to come. Most days he found the hypocrisies of Buddhism hard to stomach. Today was promising to be one of those days and more so.
The wakashū Togashi Shokan’s servant Makoto had proved eager to talk last night, and while what he could offer did not quite live up to Tetsuo’s promise, he still had divulged enough information to make it worth Hiroki’s while to give him a few coins before Tetsuo returned him to the streets. For one thing, he had put Togashi back onto Hiroki’s list of murder suspects: while it was true that he had been seen by numerous monks at Miidera on the day of the murder, it was also the case, Makoto had said, that the servant had not stolen the wisteria-patterned trousers that had apparently been worn by the killer. So if Makoto could be trusted — and for now Hiroki was prepared to trust him — Togashi had lied about that part of his alibi for the murder.
More interesting — even if Hiroki could not yet understand the part it played in the murder investigation — was the news that a senior administrator at Miidera was Togashi’s sole surviving relative. Makoto claimed that this retired monk, who had adopted the name Banzan when taking the tonsure, was still a participant in the power-struggles that had swallowed up the shogunate and the capital. Makoto being little better than a peasant, he had been able to offer no suggestion as to which of the many factions Banzan supported. But the servant had insisted that Togashi’s visits to his uncle had not had anything to do with family. They are up to something, those two, Makoto had insisted. Something not good for the emperor.
Nothing good happens for the emperor, Hiroki thought, and nothing good has happened for the emperor in a hundred years.
But Hiroki could spare little thought today for the emperor.
Not for the first time he found himself wondering at the difference between the job he was trying to do and the job he usually did for Lord Tanuma. Gathering intelligence for the lord turned out to be considerably more straightforward than identifying a killer. The goal was understood before the mission began, and while things could — and often did — go wrong during the execution of the task, at least he always knew what he was expected to do and how he was to go about doing it.
This assignment, however, threw up two new questions for every answer he managed to find. Where he had expected to progress by narrowing down the number of possible murderers until the only remaining suspect had to be one who had committed the crime, he instead found himself increasing his suspect list with every new piece of information he obtained.
At this rate I might just as well tell the arms master to execute his secretary after all, so that we can go home. Hiroki sighed, then had to close his eyes against a sudden twist of pain.
“This is as far as we can ride, I think,” he said when he was able to open his eyes again and speak in a normal voice. “You two know what it is I want you to do?”
“Of course,” Shiro said, dismounting. “It’ll be just like that time last year, when we crept into the enemy camp to get a proper count of his ashigaru. Only this time it’ll be easier because we don’t have to ford a river.”
“I hope none of the monks we’ll encounter is armed,” Tetsuo said, untying his scabbard from his belt. “I feel half-naked without this sword, and a wakizashi isn’t going to be much defence” — he waved the short-sword in an impotent fashion — “against a monk armed with a katana or naginata.”
“I know,” Hiroki said. “But it’s impossible to hide a katana under a kimono, much less that no-dachi you like to use.” He thought about dismounting, tested his knee and changed his mind. I’ll just wait until those two have gone, and then have Jiro help me down. “And if you’re seen it’s important that you look like peasants or servants.
“Which means that you also keep those hats on at all times.” He pointed to the conical straw hats Jiro was now removing from their pack-horse. “Nobody must see your hair.” Because no peasant would be allowed to wear his hair in any of the samurai styles.
“Don’t worry so much, Hiroki,” Shiro said. “We’ve done this before, even without you. You taught us well.”
“We will not disappoint you,” Tetsuo said, carefully applying a few streaks of mud to his cheeks, forearms and the backs of his hands.
“I am not worried in the slightest,” Hiroki lied.
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