“The Conspiracy of Twenty-One… all twenty-one years old.” Increasingly hysterical, Cherry Eater released a flood of babble. “All younger sons of daimyo. Noriyoshi said they want to restore their clans to the glory of the old days. Dangerous, yes, because Lord Niu is crazy and will stop at nothing to reach his goal.” Cherry Eater paused. “Do you mind?” he asked Kikunojo, pointing to a bottle of sake on the counter.
At Kikunojo’s nod, he picked it up, drained it, coughed, wiped his mouth. “Noriyoshi said that, impossible as it seems, they might even succeed! He said… ”
Come on, come on, Sano urged silently. You’ve told me who they are, and I might have guessed, anyway, because of the crests, I already know what they want. Now tell me what they’re going to do!
Cherry Eater said, “They truly intend to commit this murder- the ultimate treason!”
The impact of his words sent a spasm of horror through Sano’s body. His hand locked convulsively around his chopsticks. If he interpreted Cherry Eater’s meaning correctly, then the Conspiracy of Twenty-One planned to assassinate the shogun! And to what terrible end? At best, to bring down the wrath of the Tokugawas upon their clans. At worst, to usher in a new era of civil war, if the great daimyo each tried to claim the vacant post of supreme military dictator. Madness! Then, before Sano could think or hear anything else, a hand clapped his shoulder.
“Sano-san!”
Sano dropped his chopsticks, wincing at the sound of his own name. As he turned toward the speaker, he saw Cherry Eater’s head snap around.
“And what brings you here, master?” It was the cheerful, wizened peddler who sold fish in Sano’s parents’ neighborhood. “I thought you worked for the magistrate now. A yoriki, aren’t you?”
“Shhh!” Sano waved his hands to silence the peddler, at the same time throwing a backward glance at Cherry Eater and Kikunojo. With dismay, he saw that the damage had been done.
Cherry Eater and Kikunojo were both looking straight at him, alarmed recognition written on their faces. Then, simultaneously, they bolted in opposite directions. Kikunojo shot past Sano and out the front door. He threw off his cumbersome cloak as he ran, leaving it on the floor along with the cushions that had made him look fat. Cherry Eater snatched up his bundle, scurried around the counter, and disappeared beyond the curtain hanging over the kitchen door.
“Talked to your mother yesterday,” the peddler went on, looking bewildered by Sano’s peculiar greeting. “Your father’s not feeling too good, eh? That’s too bad. I’ll bring him some whale liver next time I come… Sano-san, where are you going in such a hurry?”
Sano flung some money on the counter to pay for his food. He hated to let Kikunojo get away; he had questions for the actor. But he had to go after Cherry Eater and learn more about Lord Niu’s plot against the shogun, to whom he owed his first duty and loyalty. He beat aside the curtain and burst into the kitchen. A woman stood at a table, gutting fish. She screamed as Sano collided with her on his way to the back door.
“Sorry, excuse me!” he shouted.
Outside, he found himself in a fetid alley. He saw Cherry Eater’s hurrying figure heading toward the canal.
“Wait!” he called. “I just want to talk to you!”
Cherry Eater kept running, hampered by his bundle. Sano quickly gained on him, but lost the advantage when some men came out of a door and blocked his way. He cleared the alley just in time to see Cherry Eater splash through the water and climb into a fishing boat.
“Wait, Cherry Eater!” he shouted, panting as he dodged around people, stray dogs, and piles of fishing net.
“Hurry, hurry!” Cherry Eater urged, his frantic hops and gestures almost upsetting the boat.
With a shrug, the boatman poled his craft away from the shore and guided it east, toward the Sumida River.
Sano waded knee-deep into the cold, filthy canal. He grabbed the boat. “Please.” he begged Cherry Eater. “You must tell me more about the conspiracy’s plans. When are they going to kill the shogun? Where? How? They must be stopped, don’t you understand? Please!”
Cherry Eater kicked at Sano’s hands, shrieking, “Go away! Leave me alone!”
The boat rocked, then tipped over. Cherry Eater and the boatman landed in the canal amid splashes and curses. Sano seized the thrashing shunga dealer by the collar. He dunked Cherry Eater’s head under the water again and again.
“Tell me!” he ordered. Cherry Eater gasped and moaned each time he surfaced, but shook his head, refusing to speak. Sano pushed him underwater and held him there as long as he dared without actually drowning him. Cherry Eater’s struggles weakened. Sano pulled him up. “When? Where? How?” he demanded.
His face red and his bug eyes filled with terror, the shunga dealer coughed and choked. He spewed water from his stained mouth. But he continued to shake his head.
“Kill me if you must, master,” he wailed, “but it will do you no good. Because I don’t know when or where or how Lord Niu plans to assassinate the shogun!”
Chapter 23
O -hisa did not want to be sitting in the sewing room of the Niu mansion. She did not want to be making doll clothes for the daimyo’s daughters, under the supervision of Yasue, the head seamstress. As the appointed hour for her meeting with Sano slipped past, her mind yearned toward the swordmaker’s shop where he waited to take her to the Council of Elders. But she had no choice except to sit and sew and wish herself away.
“When you finish that,” Yasue said, pointing to the tiny kimono that O-hisa was hemming, “there are plenty more.” She waved a hand at the brightly colored silks strewn over the floor. “The Doll Festival is but a month away, and we have two hundred dolls to dress. We must not bring bad luck upon the house by failing to have them ready on time.” Her eyes never left O-hisa.
O-hisa sighed. “Yes, Yasue-san.”
Once O-hisa would have loved this task, which reminded her of home and the happiness of childhood. Her mother and grandmother were both widows; they made a meager living by sewing. But they’d always given her a Doll Festival, the annual celebration for young girls. Late at night, after their day’s work was done, they would sit around the stove in their one-room house in the poorest section of Nihonbashi and sew the dolls’ clothes by lamplight. O-hisa could picture them now. Her mother, face tired, still kindly and patiently teaching her small daughter how to cut and stitch. Her blind grandmother, smiling encouragement as her deft hands miraculously fashioned garments she couldn’t see. For all of them, O-hisa’s tenth and last festival, just before she left home to take her first job, had held a particular poignancy.
“Don’t cry, O-hisa,” her grandmother had said. “You’ll come back for visits on New Year’s Day, when all servants are allowed to go home.”
“Be a brave, obedient girl,” her mother had said, bowing her head to hide her own tears.
Now O-hisa felt a stab of homesickness. She sighed, saddened by the comparison between past and present. The fabric in her hands was silk, instead of the cotton scraps her mother had saved from various sewing jobs. The dolls would be fine porcelain, not wood or straw. But they were for the daimyo’s daughters, not her. And her present companions robbed the familiar ritual of all pleasure.
Yasue’s gnarled, arthritic fingers could no longer hold a needle. She kept her position because she had once served Lady Niu’s family and had come to Edo when her mistress married. O-hisa knew that her real job now was making sure Lady Niu knew everything that went on in the women’s quarters.
Beside Yasue sat the maid O-aki. Stout, unsmiling, with large hands that looked strong enough to wring an ox’s neck. Shunned by the other servants as an informer who would report their mistakes, gossip, petty thefts, and bad attitudes to Lady Niu. Once she’d caught a cook’s helper stealing rice from the pantry. She’d broken the man’s arm before taking him to Lady Niu.