But fear is contagious. The killer preyed on samurai who traveled alone at night, as he did now. Madness often confers a peculiar strength—enough, perhaps, for the Bundori Killer to conquer the most formidable, forewarned adversary. Was he pursuing a new trophy tonight? Memory served up images of the bloody, mutilated bodies and gruesome trophies Sano had seen. The gathering darkness added danger. Rational thought couldn’t keep dread from taking root and growing within Sano.
He quickened his pace, forcing the horse to trot beside him. Did he hear footsteps coming down the side street he’d just passed, or see a shadow lurking in the ruin of that burned building? Ahead, he saw lanterns burning above a gate and heard voices and laughter from the district beyond it. Mocking his cowardice, he nevertheless started to swing himself onto his horse’s back—when a man leapt out of an alley and into his path, sword raised.
“Sano Ichirō, prepare to die!” he called.
Surprise tore a yell from Sano’s throat. His horse neighed, rearing before he could fling his leg over the saddle. The reins ripped free of his hands. He fell backward, landing hard on the base of his spine. The shattering jolt drove his teeth together and forced the breath from his lungs. Pain shot through his back. His swords clattered against the ground. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard his horse’s hoofbeats receding into the distance. He saw his attacker advancing upon him.
Sano lurched to his feet. Dizzy and disoriented, he trod on the hems of his trousers, and nearly fell again. Only his years of training and swift natural reflexes allowed him to right himself and draw his sword. Not waiting for his assailant to strike first, he launched a wild diagonal slice. His blade met his opponent’s in a resounding clash of steel. He couldn’t see the man’s face, hidden under a wide hat, or distinguish any details about him other than his medium height, short kimono, and tight leggings.
“Who are you?” he shouted.
Without answering, his attacker thrust his weight against their crossed blades. Sano jumped backward, avoiding a wicked upslash that would have slit him from groin to throat. The wall of a shop halted him with a shuddering slam. Fresh pain burst in his already sore back. He parried another cut the instant before it reached his chest. Now his attacker’s face was almost touching his as they both struggled to free their blades. He heard and smelled the other’s sour breath. Pushing away from the wall, he managed to shove the man aside and regain clear maneuvering space in the street.
He circled the crouched figure at a distance of several paces, delaying the next clash. As a samurai, he’d been born to fight, to kill, to die by the sword. Battle lust rose in him, fiery and intoxicating, his learned response after thirty-one years of conditioning. Yet he’d had enough senseless violence and bloodshed to last a lifetime. And he wanted to know who this man was, why he’d attacked.
The man launched a fresh assault, forcing Sano to return strike for strike. Steel rang upon steel; echoes reverberated from the walls. They dodged and pivoted, rushed and retreated. Sano’s recently injured left arm ached whenever he wielded the sword with both hands. A part of his mind registered distant sounds, growing closer. Shouts. Running footsteps. Doors screeching open. On the periphery of his vision, he saw lights moving toward him. But instead of fleeing, his attacker persisted.
Sano’s inner energy, called forth by combat, flowed from his spiritual center, empowering him. But that perfect coordination of conscious thought and unconscious action, which he’d rarely approached and achieved only once before, eluded him. Forced to rely heavily on learned expertise, he must win this fight in a rational, rather than a spiritual way. As he parried strikes, he noted his opponent’s bold strokes, flamboyant style, and aggressive risk taking. Shrewdly he encouraged these faults. He adopted an awkward crouching posture. He limited his cuts to defensive parries, yielding the offensive to his attacker. He slowed his movements by a carefully calculated instant. With these ploys, he achieved his aim of making himself seem less competent than he was, but also endangered his life. The whistling blade shredded his left sleeve; a line of pain burned his forearm. A low slice grazed his shins and left the hem of his kimono flapping. He dodged just in time to avoid a cruel cut to the temple.
Gradually he became aware that a crowd had gathered in the street, which was now almost as bright as day. He could see his attacker’s fierce grimace beneath the concealing hat. The spectators, bearing lanterns and torches, surrounded them in a ragged, shifting circle. Now his lunging, darting opponent moved against a changing background of figures: excited samurai, cheering and hooting; two gate sentries, mouths open in awe, spears dangling idle in their hands, one holding the reins of Sano’s horse, which must have tried to run past them in its wild flight; men who looked like shopkeepers, armed with clubs and sticks, eyes alight with vicarious excitement. Fragments of talk impinged on Sano’s concentration:
“What’s going on, why are they fighting?”
“It’s the Bundori Killer!”
“But they’re men, not ghosts, and that one wears the shogun’s crest.”
“It’s just a duel.”
Although any of them would have readily defended their own lives, families, and property, no one moved to help Sano. They knew better than to interfere when samurai fought. One stray cut could kill anyone who got in the way.
Now Sano saw that his ruse was working. He felt his opponent gaining false confidence, growing even bolder. At last, Sano seized his chance.
He took a weak swipe at his opponent, who parried easily. Sano dropped to his left knee, pretending that the stroke had downed him. The man raised his sword high in both hands. His grimace widened into a grin as he prepared to deliver the final killing cut.
Sano moved with all the speed and strength he’d held in reserve. Before the deadly blade reached him, he lashed out his own sword in a short horizontal arc.
The man screamed in agony as the blade cut deep into his belly. Dropping his sword, he crumpled to his knees, hands pressed against the front of his kimono. Blood and entrails spilled from between his fingers. He raised his head to gaze in shocked disbelief at Sano.
Rising and backing away, Sano saw the life fade from the man’s eyes, and animation leave his features. The attacker opened his mouth as if to cry out again. A gout of blood spurted forth. Then he fell sideways and lay motionless, hands still clasped over the fatal wound.
Sano cleaned his bloody sword on his soiled, tattered garments and sheathed it. With the heady heat of the battle still pulsing through his veins, he stared down at his conquered enemy while the silent crowd watched and waited. His heart’s agitated thudding slowed and stabilized. His lungs stopped heaving; the cold night air dried the sweat on his face as he tried to make sense of what had happened.
Believing that the key to the murders lay in the samurai victims’ connections with Araki Yojiemon and Endō Munetsugu, Sano didn’t think he’d slain the Bundori Killer. His own lineage disqualified him as a target; he had no family ties to Araki or Endō. And how, without a concealing cloak or a container of some kind, could his assailant have transported a severed head past the strolling crowds, gate sentries, and police? If only he could have spared the man’s life and learned his name, his motives.
Sano knelt beside the body and pushed aside the wicker hat that had fallen over its owner’s face. In the glow of the spectators’ lanterns he saw small, sharp features and teeth; the youngish, foxlike visage of a total stranger. Gingerly he rummaged inside the dead man’s blood-soaked garments, seeking a clue to his identity. His probing fingers touched a hard lump secreted between the under and outer kimonos. He pulled out a cloth pouch whose contents clinked as he loosened the drawstring. Into his hand he poured ten gold koban and a folded paper.
The shiny coins drew gasps from the crowd. Sano unfolded the paper. A handful of dried melon seeds trickled out. As he read the characters inked on the paper, revelation chilled him.
“What’s going on here?”
Looking up at the sound of a f
amiliar voice, Sano recognized his old foe, the doshin Tsuda.
“You again.” Tsuda’s gaze moved from Sano to the corpse, then back; he scowled. “Sōsakan-sama or not, you’re under arrest. I’m taking you to police headquarters.”
Sano got to his feet. Wiping his bloody hands on his ruined kimono, he said, “I killed him in self-defense. But I’ll be glad to go to headquarters with you. I want to report that someone has hired this assassin to murder me.”
Police headquarters occupied a site on the southern edge of the Hibiya administrative district, as far from the city officials’ mansions and the castle as possible because of the spiritual pollution its association with executions and death conferred. Sano, escorted by the surly Tsuda, gained entry from the guards at the gate and left his horse with them. Inside the walled courtyard lined with doshin barracks, he stared in surprise.
The yard, which should have been empty at the day’s end, was jammed with people. A crowd of young samurai, hands tied behind their backs and minus their swords, squatted on the ground. All sported bruises and bloody gashes. They glowered at a gang of young peasants in similar condition. Doshin and assistants stood watch over them all.
“What’s going on here?” Tsuda asked a colleague.
“Those samurai got drunk and looted a shop,” the other doshin said. “The townsmen tried to stop them, and a riot started. Two people were trampled to death.”
Tsuda bent an accusing stare upon Sano. “The Bundori Murders have caused a lot of trouble,” he said. “But not as much as they will if they go on.”
Sano could neither disagree nor dodge the blame. This most recent incident in the age-old conflict between samurai and townsmen could burgeon into the full-scale warfare that had troubled Edo’s early history. He’d seen the heightening tension that the murders had wrought. He’d experienced the fear himself. And now he knew he must stop the Bundori Killer soon—for the sake of the whole city, as much as to save individual lives and fulfill his own vows.
Tsuda led him into the main building. In the reception room, a large space broken by square pillars hung with lanterns, more doshin and their noisy prisoners had gathered. An emaciated man with long, matted hair, dressed in rags, harangued the clerks seated at desks on a raised platform.
“I am the Bundori Killer,” he shouted. Two guards tried to drag him away, but he repelled them with wild kicks and punches. “Take me to the magistrate at once!”
“And just what proof is there that you have in fact committed murder, Jihei?” the chief clerk asked wearily.
“Proof? I need no proof! I am the Bundori Killer! I weave magic spells to strike down evil men with an invisible sword and make trophies of their heads!”
He whirled in a manic dance, and a glimpse of his haggard face and sunken, red-rimmed eyes gave Sano pause. Was this man really the Bundori Killer, turning himself in? Incredulous, he glanced at Tsuda.
The doshin grimaced. “He’s a simpleton who lives under the Nihonbashi Bridge. He’s confessed to all the murders, even though we know he couldn’t have killed Kaibara because he was in jail then.”
That anyone, even a simpleton, should want to confess to a crime he hadn’t committed escaped Sano’s understanding. Clearly the Bundori Murders had loosed a current of madness that ran just beneath Edo’s surface.
“Come on,” Tsuda growled. He ushered Sano into a bare, windowless cell that Sano recognized from his police days as the place where samurai criminals—in deference to their status—were interrogated instead of at the jail. He lit the lamps, called two guards to watch the door, and left.
Sano waited. After at least two hours had passed, the door opened, and in walked Yoriki Hayashi.
“So, sōsakan-sama.” Hayashi’s lips twisted in a sarcastic smile. “You’ve decided to contribute to the troubles the murders are causing?”
Sano refused to take the bait. Arguing that he’d only been on the case for two days, or that he wasn’t responsible for the mass hysteria the murders had provoked, would only invite more insinuations and preclude the cooperation he wanted from Hayashi.
“If you’re concerned about the disturbances in the city, then you should help me catch the killer,” Sano said, trying to sound calm and reasonable. “I want five more doshin to conduct inquiries, while their assistants perform door-to-door searches. And I want clerks to solicit and take statements from citizens who might have information about the murders.”
Hayashi’s response was a burst of derisive laughter. “You expect me to defy Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s orders—for you? Never!” His bold sneer and aggressive posture bespoke the secure knowledge that his rude, unaccommodating behavior had Yanagisawa’s sanction. “We the police can control the townspeople—but I doubt you will have as much success in finding the Bundori Killer.”
Seeing the futility of trying to gain Hayashi’s agreement in the face of Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s opposition, Sano changed the subject.
“Tonight a man tried to kill me,” he said, holding down the anger that had its roots in past injustices Hayashi had inflicted upon him. He described the attack, the sword fight, and his own necessary victory. “I found this on the body,” he finished, handing over the dead man’s pouch. “I believe he was a hired assassin, paid to keep me from investigating the murders.”
Hayashi’s slim hands lovingly counted the gold coins, but he snapped, “Muimi—nonsense! So the man died with money on him. You say there were no witnesses to the attack. Why should I believe that this … assassination attempt was not just a common street brawl?”
Sano took back the pouch and removed the paper that Hayashi had missed. “Because of this,” he said, unfolding and proffering it.
Ripped from a larger sheet, it had characters inked on both sides. On one, the name “Junnosuke” and a date; on the other, the disjointed words:
caution usual method
highly skilled at kenjutsu as soon as possible
usual terms
“The killer called me by name,” Sano explained. “The letter is dated the day I took charge of the investigation. I don’t claim to be highly skilled at swordsmanship, but anyone who attacks me should use caution. And the usual terms?” He pointed at the gold coins now resting in Hayashi’s palm. “Partial payment upon accepting the job; the rest after my death.”
“And why would an assassin retain a compromising document such as a letter ordering him to kill?” Hayashi asked skeptically. “Assuming that this is such a letter—which I cannot.”
“He’d torn off the incriminating passages and used the rest to wrap some dried melon seeds.”
For some reason, mention of the seeds caused Hayashi’s derisive smile to slip, a muscle to twitch in his jaw.
“You know this man,” Sano challenged. “Who is he?”
But Hayashi had himself under control now. “Okashii—ridiculous! He was probably someone you offended.”
Sano had considered the possibility. He knew that many of his colleagues resented his promotion. Chamberlain Yanagisawa disliked him. But assassination was an extreme way to redress a minor grievance; its timing too coincidental. And Hayashi’s involuntary reaction had strengthened his conviction.
“I want the police to find out who the assassin was, and who hired him,” Sano said. “I believe it was the Bundori Killer, who considers me a threat, but doesn’t want to attack me himself, either because of my skill or status, or because he’s busy stalking other victims. If you investigate the attempt on my life as a new case, separate from the murders, you needn’t fear going against Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s orders.”
“But you’ve given me insufficient justification for diverting the efforts of our already overworked police force to the task of investigating a common ruffian who is already dead.” Hayashi’s mocking manner returned. “You are nowhere near catching the killer; why should he deem you a threat? And remember: I have received no orders to assist you—with anything.”
He replaced the coins and paper in the pouc
h, which he handed back to Sano. “And now, if you will excuse me, I have many criminals to attend to. As I would not, if you had caught the Bundori Killer by now.”
He opened the door and told the guards, “Get a clerk to take the sōsakan-sama’s statement.” To Sano: “Afterward, you will be free to go. But if you continue to engage in brawls, not even your status will protect you from the law. His Excellency does not condone such unseemly behavior.”
As Sano sat down to wait, the new threat of the shogun’s disapproval only compounded his problems. For despite the lack of solid proof, he was sure of several things.
His assailant wasn’t just a common Edo street brawler, or a jealous rival. Someone wanted to stop his inquiry into the Bundori Murders. Probing the assassin’s background could lead him to the killer. In the meantime, to pursue the investigation would mean risking his own life.
12
It was nearly midnight when Sano finished with the police, much too late for him to meet Aoi. When he reached the castle, he dispatched a messenger to the shrine with his apologies. But it wasn’t too late to consult the Edo Castle historical archives. Chief Archivist Noguchi was an avid scholar who didn’t confine his studies to the daytime. Often Sano and the other clerks had stayed up with him until dawn, copying, restoring, and poring over old scrolls by lamplight until their eyes ached.
Inside the castle’s Official Quarter, Sano dismounted outside the mansion that housed the archives. The guards, accustomed to their master’s irregular hours, took charge of Sano’s horse and bowed him through the gate. At the door, a manservant met him and led him into the study.
Bundori:: A Novel of Japan Page 12