The Ronin's Mistress: A Novel (Sano Ichiro Novels)

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Hirata smiled at her attempt to play her parents off against each other. “Sorry. Your mother’s word is the law.” He asked, “You like Masahiro, don’t you?”

  “He’s all right,” Taeko said with studied nonchalance.

  Midori and Hirata exchanged a look that combined amusement and concern. Their daughter had a crush on Masahiro. Although she was so young, children grew up fast in this world of theirs, and they hoped she wouldn’t be hurt. A marriage between Taeko and Masahiro was impossible; it could bring political benefits to her family but not to his.

  “Masahiro got in a fight with some boys yesterday,” Taeko said.

  “Why?” Hirata asked.

  “They were making fun of us because the shogun demoted our fathers,” Taeko said.

  Hirata looked at Midori and saw his dismay on her face. When Sano had been chamberlain, Hirata had taken over Sano’s former position as chief investigator. When Sano had been demoted, Hirata had, too. Hirata and Midori worried about the effect that his demotion would have on their children. Hirata minded less for himself. He didn’t mind giving up his position to Sano, because he knew how lucky he was.

  Fourteen years ago, he’d been a lowly police patrol officer who couldn’t afford to marry. Then he’d met Sano, who’d made him his chief retainer. He owed his career to Sano. And Sano owed his life to Hirata, who’d stopped an attack on Sano and been wounded so severely that he’d almost died. But Hirata had recovered and gone on to achieve things he’d never dreamed of. He had a wife he adored, two beautiful children, and a third on the way. Life was good.

  Still, he feared for Taeko’s and Tatsuo’s future. The world was cruel to the progeny of disgraced fathers, and his children and Sano’s were already feeling the sting.

  “Was anybody hurt in the fight?” Midori said anxiously.

  “No,” Taeko said. “I scared the boys away. I told them that if they didn’t stop bothering us, my father would beat them up. I said that my father is the best fighter in Edo.”

  “You shouldn’t brag,” Midori said. “It’s not polite.”

  “But it’s true,” Tatsuo piped up.

  Hirata shrugged modestly. He was the best, as he’d proven in the many tournaments and duels he’d won. After his injury, he’d been a cripple, in constant pain. Then he’d apprenticed himself to a mystic martial arts master, an itinerant priest named Ozuno. Five years of rigorous training had restored his health, transformed his broken body into muscle, sinew, and bone as strong as steel, and developed his combat skills to the point that he was almost invincible. Secret rituals had conditioned his mind, endowing him with a wisdom far beyond his thirty-six years and a new perspective. The Tokugawa regime was but a dust speck in the cosmos. Political machinations couldn’t take away the fruits of his hard work. Nothing could.

  At least nothing had yet.

  “Excuse me, Honorable Master.” A servant knelt at the threshold of the bedchamber. “There’s a message from the sōsakan-sama. He wants your help with a new case.”

  Hirata was intrigued and excited. He said to Midori, “Maybe this is what we’ve been waiting for.”

  After washing, eating a quick breakfast, and donning his heavy winter clothes, Hirata took his swords down from the rack in the entryway and fastened them at his waist. He hesitated at the door.

  The best martial artist in Edo was afraid to go outside.

  Resisting his fear, he threw the door open. A rush of cold air that smelled of charcoal smoke greeted him. Servants were shoveling snow off the path through the garden. Hirata breathed deeply, slowing his heartbeat, calming his nerves, heightening his trained senses. He heard guards patrolling the castle, servants rattling buckets, and in the distant city the dogs barking, shopkeepers hawking their wares, and the ripple of the river. He smelled and tasted fish sizzling on grills, noodles cooking in garlic-flavored broth, night-soil in barrows headed for the countryside. Through the flood of sensory details he felt the auras given off by the million people in Edo. Each was distinct, an energy that signaled its owner’s health, personality, and emotions. Although there were far too many auras to memorize, Hirata recognized those of people he knew. He projected his senses outward, searching the city.

  Midori came to stand beside him. “Is he there?”

  “No.” Hirata didn’t feel the aura he was looking for, that he’d encountered for the first time eighteen months ago.

  He’d been at Ueno Temple when he’d felt an aura more powerful than any he’d ever met. It emanated from a man with powers far beyond what Hirata had thought possible for a mere mortal. Struck with awe and terror, Hirata had waited for the man to reveal himself—but he hadn’t. Instead, the man had begun loitering invisibly near him, taunting him. Once only, he’d let Hirata catch a glimpse of him, then slipped away.

  Since then, Hirata had been searching for the man he called his stalker, whose name and face he didn’t know, whose fighting skills he probably couldn’t match, who could follow him anywhere. He lived in fear of an attack that might hurt his family and friends as well as himself. He spent days riding through the city, trying to lure his stalker into the open; but so far his stalker remained hidden and anonymous.

  “Maybe he’s not coming back,” Midori said. She was one of the few people that Hirata had told about his stalker. Sano was another. He’d sworn them all to secrecy. He didn’t want anyone else to know he was afraid of a ghost that nobody but himself could detect.

  “Yes, he is,” Hirata said. “He’s hovering in the distance, biding his time.”

  “For what?” Midori tried, not very hard, to hide her skepticism.

  “To fight me,” Hirata said.

  Many men would like to beat him in combat and replace him as Edo’s top martial artist. Many had tried. All had failed. But Hirata realized that even his mystical powers couldn’t keep him in his prime forever. Eventually someone would come along who could defeat him. He feared it was the stalker. He sensed that the time for a showdown was near.

  “What are your teacher’s sayings that you’re always quoting?” Midori said. “‘What we fear, we create.’ ‘His own mind is a warrior’s most formidable adversary.’ I wonder if your mind is driving you crazy. Maybe this stalker doesn’t really exist. Maybe you made him up.”

  “I did not.” Annoyance prickled Hirata.

  His wife didn’t entirely believe in his mystical powers, even though she’d seen him perform astonishing feats. A practical woman, she thought everything had a rational explanation. But of course Hirata hadn’t believed in the supernatural until he’d experienced it himself. He couldn’t expect Midori to understand. And he had to admit that there could be truth to what she’d said. Perhaps his mind and his fear had built the stalker into a bigger, stronger person than the man really was. But Hirata didn’t think so.

  “I have to go,” he said.

  Concern for him crept into Midori’s eyes in spite of her doubts that he was in any real danger. “Be careful.”

  3

  GUARDS IN THE towers and enclosed corridors atop the walls of Edo Castle looked down at the main gate, which opened to let out a procession of mounted samurai. Sano rode in the lead, Hirata by his side. Marume and Fukida followed with fifty soldiers from his army. His heart lightened as it always did when he escaped the castle’s confines. As he and his men crossed the bridge over the moat, he breathed the eye-watering, cheek-stinging cold and the fresh atmosphere of hope.

  They turned on the avenue that separated Edo Castle from the daimyo district, where the feudal lords lived in vast, walled compounds. The wooden framework structures of fire-watch towers were sketched against a blue sky pillowed with white clouds. Snow lay shin-deep on the wide avenue. There wasn’t much traffic except a squadron of samurai on horseback approaching from the opposite direction. Poles on their backs flew banners that bore the crest of a daimyo clan allied with Yanagisawa. They barreled straight toward Sano, their chins tilted up at an insolent angle.

  Marume and Fukida ga
lloped forward. “Hey!” Marume said. “Move aside!”

  The soldiers kept going. Sano clenched his jaw. While the shogun had backed him, he’d commanded the respect of almost everybody. Since he’d lost favor, no one deferred to him. He should be used to it by now, but it was still hard to take.

  Fukida, Marume, and his other troops reached for their swords. Sano said, “Let it go.” The satisfaction of teaching the soldiers a lesson wasn’t worth the loss of human lives. Early on, Sano’s younger, hotheaded retainers had fought many brawls on his behalf. Too many had died. Not only did Sano hate the waste, but he needed all his troops.

  His men reluctantly desisted. The soldiers snickered and started to ride through Sano’s army.

  Hirata blocked them. He’d moved so swiftly that they were startled to find him in their path. “Go around us.”

  His voice was quiet, but his aura of power stopped the soldiers. Their fright showed as they recognized him. They knew he could kill them before they could strike him once. Nobody dared insult Sano in Hirata’s presence. Laughing as if at a joke that wasn’t funny, they slunk around Sano’s group.

  Hirata steered his horse back into position beside Sano. Marume and Fukida nodded approvingly to him, but Sano sensed the tension among the three men as the procession continued down the avenue. The detectives didn’t object to Hirata taking his rightful place next to Sano; but when Hirata had been sōsakan-sama and Sano had been chamberlain, Marume and Fukida had acted as Sano’s chief retainers. They’d enjoyed the status and responsibility, and they disliked being shunted to the background. And although the detectives liked Hirata, he’d changed since learning the mystic martial arts. They feared him, even though he was their comrade.

  But today nothing could darken Sano’s or his men’s spirits for long. One murder investigation fourteen years ago had launched Sano on an extraordinary rise to power. One murder investigation now could be his redemption. His men were excited to be on an important mission, and the city had a festive air. White, sparkling snow covered roofs, streets, and dirt. Women swept their doorsteps, sending flurries of flakes over brightly dressed children pelting one another with snowballs. Pine boughs hung over doors, decorations for the coming New Year. Sano and his men crossed the Ryōgoku Bridge, which arched over barges and fishing boats on the glittering Sumida River. They joked and laughed.

  Their humor abruptly ended when they found the first evidence of the murder.

  The snow in the street between the earthen walls of the estates in Kira’s neighborhood was red with bloody footprints and spatters. These originated at the gate of a mansion two stories tall, whose many curved tile roofs rose above surrounding barracks. As Sano and his men dismounted, Fukida said, “Merciful gods.”

  “I thought we were coming to investigate one murder,” Marume said, his usual cheer sobered. “This looks like the scene of a massacre.”

  Near an empty guardhouse, ladders leaned against the wall. “That must be how the killers got into the mansion.” Sano glanced up and down the street. People peered out the gates of other estates. When his gaze met theirs, they withdrew. “Let’s go in.” He and his men approached the gate. “Be careful. The messenger said that the killers are gone, but we don’t know what to expect.”

  Swords drawn, they lined up on either side of the portals. Hirata gingerly opened the gate. They walked between the barracks, along a path that was covered with more bloodstained snow. Two men lay facedown, dead. Both were samurai, half naked, barefoot. Arrows protruded from their backs. Sano and his men proceeded to the courtyard. Here the blood was so plentiful that it had turned the snow into a crimson slush. Many more bodies were scattered about. Sano’s troops exclaimed and muttered. A few retched. Sano frowned at the gashed chests, the bellies oozing entrails, the throats cut. Vacant eyes gazed up at the sky. Sano almost stepped on a severed hand. His stomach lurched, even though he’d seen plenty of carnage in the past. This attack was surely the most brutal, inflicted on men who clearly hadn’t been prepared.

  “This was no battle,” Marume said. “This was a slaughter.”

  “But where is Kira?” Hirata asked.

  They turned to the mansion. It huddled under the weight of the snow on its roof, its façade in shadow, the veranda dark beneath overhanging eaves. Crows and vultures perched on the gables, waiting to feast on the corpses. The house was as quiet as a tomb. Sano and his men followed bloody footprints up the steps and through the door. They didn’t bother taking off their shoes as polite custom required. The corridor they entered was awash in melted snow and more blood. They crept past silent, empty rooms.

  A man rushed from around a corner. He was small and stooped, and he carried a spear. “Don’t come any farther! Get out!” He clumsily thrust his spear at Sano and the other men.

  “Hey, be careful with that thing.” Marume seized the spear. The old man squealed and cowered.

  “We’re not going to hurt you,” Sano said, and introduced himself. He and his troops sheathed their swords.

  The old man gasped, dropped to his knees, and bowed. “Sōsakan-sama. A thousand apologies. I thought they’d come back.”

  “Who are you?” Sano asked.

  “Gorobei. I’m Lord Kira’s valet.” Grief contorted the old man’s face. “I was.”

  “The shogun sent me to investigate Kira-san’s murder,” Sano said. “May I speak to his chief retainer?”

  Gorobei sobbed. “He’s dead.”

  “What about his other officials?”

  “They’re either dead, too, or wounded.”

  “Who’s in charge?” Sano said.

  “Nobody,” Gorobei said.

  “Who sent the messenger to Edo Castle?”

  “I did. I also sent for a doctor to take care of the wounded men. They’re in the barracks.”

  “You’ve done well,” Sano said. “Where are the women and children?” He knew Kira had a large family. “Are they all right?”

  “Yes, thank the gods. The gang didn’t touch them. They’re in the private quarters, with the servants.” Gorobei added, “The watchdog was also spared. I found him tied up and muzzled outside.”

  Tokugawa law forbade killing dogs. The shogun had been told by his spiritual advisors that if he protected dogs, then the gods would grant him an heir. It hadn’t worked so far, probably because he had sex with men much more often than women. Sano was amazed by the gang’s combination of violence and respect for the law.

  “Can you take us to Kira?” Sano said.

  Gorobei nodded, choking back tears. He led Sano’s party to the bedchamber. More bloody footprints soiled the tatami around a bed whose quilt was folded back as if the occupant had just risen. Gorobei lifted a scroll painting that hung on the wall, revealing a door.

  “My master had this door built, in case of an emergency.” He preceded Sano through the door, into a courtyard. This contained a shed whose door was ajar, the interior filled with coal and firewood. A tarp lay on the ground. Sano could see the shape of a body underneath. Blood had soaked through the fabric.

  “I didn’t want to leave him here,” Gorobei said, ashamed and regretful. “But I couldn’t move him by myself, and no one else would touch him.”

  “It’s better that you left him until we got here.” Sano was glad to have any clues intact.

  Fukida and Marume peeled back the tarp. Bony feet with bunions appeared; next came withered, veined calves, and a beige kimono with blood spatters that grew bigger as the tarp drew away. The whole upper garment was dyed red. Kira’s arms extended out from his sides, fingers stiff. The corpse ended at the neck. Bone, windpipe, and sinews showed through the blood that had clotted around the severed flesh and congealed into a half-frozen puddle.

  The detectives let the tarp drop. Fukida sucked air through his teeth. Marume winced. Gorobei wept. Sano and Hirata gazed in silence, paying their respects to their colleague. Sano endured the spiritual pollution that the dead exude. He brushed aside the irreverent thought that he’d stepp
ed in so much blood that he would have to burn his boots when he got home. Then he asked the obvious question.

  “Where is Kira’s head?”

  “They took it.” Gorobei clarified, “The men who killed him.”

  “Who are they?” Sano said. “Did you get a look at them?”

  “No. But I know who they must be. They’re former retainers of Lord Asano.”

  Sano realized he should have known. Hirata and Fukida nodded in comprehension. Marume said, “Lord Asano. So that’s what this was about. The incident at Edo Castle—when was it? Two years ago?”

  “Twenty-two months, exactly.” Sano recited the details of the incident. “Envoys had come from the Emperor’s court in Miyako. The host in charge of entertaining them was Lord Asano Naganori, age thirty-four, daimyo of Ako Castle in Harima Province. Kira’s job as master of ceremonies was to instruct Lord Asano on how to conduct the ritual. An antagonism developed between Lord Asano and Kira.”

  “Has anyone ever figured out why?” Hirata asked.

  “No. That’s still a mystery,” Sano said. “But one day Lord Asano drew his sword, struck at Kira, and cut his head. Kira survived, but Lord Asano broke the law against drawing a sword inside Edo Castle, which is a capital offense. Lord Asano claimed he and Kira had a personal quarrel, Kira had provoked him, and he had to defend his honor. Kira claimed there was no quarrel and Lord Asano had attacked him for nothing. The shogun believed Kira. He ordered Lord Asano to commit seppuku. The house of Asano was dissolved, its wealth and lands confiscated by the government, and all Lord Asano’s retainers became rōnin.”

  That was a serious disgrace for a samurai, even when he lost his warrior status through no fault of his own. Sano knew because it had happened to his own father. His father’s lord had run afoul of the third Tokugawa shogun, who’d confiscated his lands and turned all his retainers, including the Sano family, out to fend for themselves. Sano’s father hadn’t recovered from the humiliation until Sano had gotten into the Tokugawa regime and restored the family’s honor.