“Nothing.”
Setting his jaw, Emperor Tomohito stared at the floor. Sano waited, but when the emperor didn’t elaborate, Sano changed the subject. “I understand that you discovered the left minister’s body.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Tomohito said, giving Sano a furtive, wary glance. “My cousin was with me.” Then a sly smile brightened his face. “I suppose you want to talk to him, too.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Sano needed to verify the emperor’s story, and the cousin might be more cooperative than Tomohito.
Turning to his attendants, the emperor said, “Summon Prince Momozono.”
6
As her palanquin carried her through the labyrinth of the imperial compound, Reiko experienced an odd sense of moving far away from everyday life, into a place that existed outside time. The archaic costumes of the people who passed her in the narrow lanes, and the old-fashioned houses glimpsed through open gates, evoked ancient legends of emperors and empresses, princes and princesses, nobles and ladies. But the dark reality of murder overshadowed the romantic past.
Now the old, white-haired courtier led her into a separate compound within the palace, to a large hall that presided over a quadrangle of connected buildings. The bearers set down the palanquin. Stepping out, Reiko saw curved eaves shading wide verandas and ornately latticed windows. Birds winged over trees visible beyond the horizontal ridge of the roofs.
“What is this place?” Reiko asked the courtier.
“It is the Palace of the Abdicated Emperor.”
Reiko knew that emperors surrendered the throne for various reasons. Some did so because of old age or poor health; some preferred to let a successor take over the wearisome rituals while they managed court affairs from behind the scenes. Others entered monasteries. However, many were forced off the throne. Strife within the imperial family could depose weak emperors; bad omens unseated others. When the reign of Emperor Go-Sai had been plagued by natural disasters, the court had deemed these evidence of his unfitness as a ruler and ordered his abdication. The grandfather of the present emperor had clashed with the bakufu over the establishment of laws that limited his power; he’d resigned in protest. Reiko couldn’t recall why Abdicated Emperor Reigen, father of Tomohito, had retired.
“Lady Jokyōden spends most days here,” said the courtier. “She awaits your arrival.”
Mounting the steps, Reiko pictured the emperor’s mother as a frail, shy old woman who was hardly likely to possess the power of kiai. Reiko smiled to herself, recalling Sano’s warnings about danger. At best, she hoped to clear up the mystery of Lady Jokyōden’s whereabouts on the night of the murder and cross one suspect off the list.
In the hall’s spacious, bare audience chamber, raised wall panels framed a view of a park outside, where maple and cherry trees created cool oases around a miniature mountain from which the former emperor could view the city. Brightly dressed figures strolled; their laughter blended with the tinkle of wind chimes. On the veranda overlooking the park, a man and woman knelt side by side, their backs to the room. A line of seated nobles faced them; servants waited to one side.
“As you will note from these figures, the imperial budget for this year exceeds the funds provided by the bakufu,” said a noble. “Since we can’t reduce expenses without degrading the emperor’s manner of living, we recommend selling some more of his poems to the public. Do you approve, Your Highness?”
“He approves,” said the woman. “Draft an order for all court poets to write verses for the emperor to copy and sign.”
A secretary wrote busily. The courtier led Reiko over to the group and said, “Honorable Abdicated Emperor and Imperial High Council, please excuse the interruption.” Conversation ceased as Reiko knelt on the veranda and bowed. “The wife of the shogun’s sōsakan-sama has come to see Lady Jokyōden.”
Abdicated Emperor Reigen gave a weary sigh. In his late thirties, he had a pudgy, placid face; his stout body sagged against cushions that propped him up. He regarded Reiko with calm indifference. “Greetings,” he said in a lethargic voice.
Reiko murmured a polite reply, her attention riveted upon the woman.
“How good of you to come, Honorable Lady Sano.” In sharp contrast to her husband, Lady Jokyōden sat upright and alert; her cultured voice was brisk. Some years older than the abdicated emperor, she had a smooth, youthful complexion and long, blue-black hair upswept with combs. She was a classic Miyako beauty: slender, long-limbed, with thin, delicate nose and mouth, her eyes narrow ovals beneath high, painted brows. But Reiko detected strength in the body beneath the ivory and mauve silk layers of Jokyōden’s garments. There was intelligence in those lovely eyes, and confident self-possession in the way her pale, tapered hands rested, fingertips together, on top of the ebony desk before her. “Your attention is an undeserved honor for this humble woman.”
Reiko’s preconceptions about the emperor’s mother shattered like the reflection in a pond when a stone drops on the surface. Flustered, she said, “Many thanks for receiving me.”
“Please allow me a moment to conclude my business,” said Lady Jokyōden. It was less a request than an order, given by a woman accustomed to commanding obedience. Lady Jokyōden turned to the abdicated emperor. “My lord, you will please sign the directive to the court poets?”
Reigen sighed again. “Well, if I must, I must.”
The secretary handed over a scroll. Jokyōden inked Reigen’s jade seal. Lifting his hand, she molded it around the seal, stamped the document, and gave it back to the secretary. Then she dismissed the nobles, who bowed and departed; servants hoisted Reigen onto a litter and bore him away.
Reiko stared in awe. She’d thought herself daring and clever for helping Sano with his work, but here was a woman who did her husband’s thinking for him and gave the orders.
Lady Jokyōden performed the customary welcoming ritual of serving tea. In her curiosity about her hostess, Reiko forgot manners. “How is it that you can conduct business that is usually the province of men?” she blurted.
Filling Reiko’s tea bowl, Jokyōden looked momentarily startled. Then she eyed Reiko with heightened interest. The atmosphere between them altered subtly, lifting the social constraints that allowed only superficial talk during formal visits. Jokyōden answered with equal frankness: “My husband has always been disinclined toward physical and mental exertion. He married me because he knew I could act in his stead. Abdicating relieved him of certain duties, but I continue to manage the household for him until our son is ready to do so. The court accepts the situation out of respect for my husband.”
“Forgive my impertinence in asking,” Reiko said, noting the parallel between Lady Jokyōden’s situation and her own: Marriage had brought both of them the chance to exercise their particular talents. “It’s just so rare to see a woman in charge.”
“It is also rare for the wife of an Edo official to travel to Miyako,” said Jokyōden. “May I ask how that came about?”
Reiko experienced a stab of trepidation. Surely Jokyōden knew that Sano was investigating the death of Left Minister Konoe. Would she guess that Reiko was here on Sano’s business? Now his warning didn’t seem so groundless.
“My husband thought I would enjoy seeing the old capital,” Reiko said.
“Indeed.” Jokyōden sounded skeptical. “And what is your impression of Miyako?”
“I haven’t seen much yet, but it’s very different from Edo,” Reiko said, glad that Jokyōden hadn’t challenged her explanation. “I’m particularly fascinated by the Imperial Palace.”
A wry smile touched Jokyōden’s lips. “You would find it less fascinating if you had spent your entire life here.”