Sano Ichiro 10 The Assassin's Touch (2005)

by Laura Joh Rowland

  With a sudden burst of temper, he flung his bundle across the room. It hit the wall, then plopped onto the floor. His expression was murderous as he dropped to his knees. Yugao didn’t care that he hated depending on her for survival. Kneeling behind him, she hugged him and laid her cheek against his, although he sat rigid in her embrace.

  “Everything will be all right,” she said. “Together we’ll destroy our enemies. Then we’ll be happy together as we were meant to be. Trust me.”

  * * *

  26

  The Jade Pavilion didn’t deserve its elegant name. It was a ramshackle inn, crouched on the embankment above the Nihonbashi River, that catered to travelers of limited means and laborers who worked on the barges. The inn had four wings built of planks, roofed with shaggy thatch, and attached by covered corridors. Stone steps led down the embankment to the river, which rippled oily and black in the darkness. Houseboats were anchored along the waterfront. As midnight drew near, the mist thinned, revealing the moon caught like a crystal float in a torn fishing net.

  Sano, Hirata, Detectives Marume, Fukida, Inoue, and Arai, and six guards walked up to the Jade Pavilion’s entrance, which was situated on a narrow street lined with food stalls and nautical supply shops, all dark and deserted. Twenty troops that Sano had brought surrounded the inn. A lantern burned above the entrance, but the door was closed. Sano knocked. A pudgy, bald innkeeper poked his head out of the building.

  “If you’re looking for rooms, I must apologize, masters,” he said. “Mine are all occupied.”

  “We’re looking for a fugitive,” Sano said. “Let us in. And be quiet.”

  He and his men strode in the door, along a passage to a garden of wet, overgrown grass and bushes. The smell of privies, fish, and garbage tainted the air. Verandas fronted the buildings that housed the guests. Sano and his men drew their swords, hastened onto the verandas. They flung open doors, shouting, “This is a raid! Everybody out!”

  Cries and scuffles sounded inside the rooms. Out stumbled men dressed in night robes or stark naked, blinking with sleep and fear. Hirata and the detectives lined them up on the verandas. The other troops bustled into the garden, towing guests who’d tried to flee out the windows.

  “State your names,” Hirata and the detectives ordered. The guests obeyed, their voices mingling in a cacophony of panic.

  Nobody emerged from one room. There Sano looked into darkness that appeared to be vacant. The innkeeper hovered in the garden, holding a lamp. Sano called to him, “I thought you said all the rooms were occupied.”

  “They were, master,” said the innkeeper.

  Sano took possession of the lamp and entered the room. His nostrils twitched at its stench of sickness and decay. On the floor lay a mattress covered with a dirty, crumpled quilt. Flies buzzed around a full chamber pot and a tray that held a meal of rice, tea, and soup; cold and stale. Sano bent and touched the mattress.

  Hirata appeared in the doorway. “The men we caught are crew from the river barges. If the Ghost is here, this room must be his.” Hirata looked around the empty room, and his face mirrored the disappointment on Sano’s. “He’s gone?”

  “He was here a moment ago. The bed is still warm.” Sano felt intense, crushing frustration because he’d gotten so close yet his quarry had vanished.

  “But how could he have gotten away?” Hirata inspected the room. “There’s only one door, and if he’d come out it, we’d have seen him. And the window shutters are locked from the inside. He couldn’t have—”

  Sano raised his hand, interrupting Hirata, as a faint noise caught his attention. “What’s that sound?”

  They both stood motionless and silent, listening. Sano again heard the sound, a wheeze that ended in a moan. He looked at Hirata, who nodded then mouthed, Where did it come from? They waited. The commotion outside died down, and Marume and Fukida came to the door. Sano put his finger to his lips, cautioning them. Again came the wheeze and moan. This time Sano pointed to the cabinet built into the wall. Marume and Fukida tiptoed across the room. They stood on either side of the cabinet, swords drawn. Sano could almost hear his companions’ heartbeats quickening in rhythm with his, feel them holding their breath. Fukida slid open the cabinet door.

  The cabinet was empty except for shelves that held candles, spare bedding, folded garments, and other innocuous items. Even as the letdown relaxed Sano and his men, they heard the wheeze and moan, louder now. Sano inspected the cabinet’s floor. One of the boards was crooked. Marume lifted it and flung it aside. Underneath was a hole perhaps five paces square and four deep. As Sano, Hirata, and the detectives bent over the hole, they gagged at the fetid smell of urine, sweat, and rot that billowed up from it. Sano shone the lamp inside.

  A gaunt face stared back at them with fearful eyes. It belonged to a man who lay curled on his side, clothed in dark-hued garments. He inhaled wheezes and exhaled moans. His trembling hand clutched a sword, which he brandished at his captors.

  “Drop your weapon,” Sano said. He and his men aimed their own swords at the prisoner. “Come out of there.”

  A convulsion seized the prisoner. His body shuddered; his limbs jerked. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his teeth, and uttered a screech of agony.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Fukida asked.

  The prisoner didn’t answer. His spasms passed, his body went limp, and the sword fell from his hand. He lay gasping.

  “He must be ill,” Sano said. “I don’t think he’s any danger to us. Bring him out.”

  Marume and Fukida cautiously reached into the hole. As they grasped the prisoner and lifted him, he shrieked, “No! Don’t touch me! It hurts!” He was emaciated, all bones and shriveled flesh. White cotton bandages swathed his right leg from toes to knee. They were stained with blood and pus from a wound that Sano identified as the source of the foul, rotten odor as well as the prisoner’s agony. The detectives dumped the prisoner on the bed, where he lay helpless and sobbing.

  “Is that the Ghost?” Hirata said in a dubious tone.

  Sano couldn’t believe that this invalid was the assassin who’d terrorized the regime. Crouching by the bed and setting down the lamp, Sano inspected his prisoner more closely. The man’s dirty, uncombed hair was long at the back and sides, but short stubble covered his crown, which had once been shaved: He was a samurai. Fukida held up the sword he’d retrieved from the hole. It was expensively crafted, the hilt bound with black silk cord and decorated with gold inlays, a mark of high status.

  “Who are you?” Sano asked the prisoner.

  His hollow eyes, underscored by dark shadows and wet with tears of pain, blazed with hostility toward Sano. “I know who you are,” he whispered between gasps and moans. “You’re Chamberlain Sano, running dog for Lord Matsudaira. Go ahead and kill me. I’ll tell you nothing.”

  At least he’d identified himself as a member of the opposition, Sano thought. Then another convulsion gripped the prisoner. He cried, “Help me! Make it stop! Please!”

  Hirata crouched beside Sano. He showed the prisoner a black lacquer vial. “This is opium. It will take away the pain. Answer Chamberlain Sano’s questions, and I’ll give it to you.”

  The prisoner eyed the vial with fierce, hungry longing. Perspiration drenched his pale skin as the spasms faded. He nodded weakly.

  “Who are you?” Sano repeated.

  “Iwakura Sanjuro.”

  That name had appeared on General Isogai’s list. “He’s from Yanagisawa’s elite squadron,” Sano told his men, then asked Iwakura, “How were you injured?”

  “Shot,” he gasped out. “During our last attack on Lord Matsudaira’s troops.”

  The wound had festered, spreading poison through his blood, Sano deduced; he now suffered from the fever that brought convulsions, wasting, and death. “When did this happen?”

  “In the third month of this year.”

  One month ago. “How long have you been sick?”

  “I don’t recall.” Iwakura wi
nced and groaned. “Seems like forever.”

  Sano looked at Hirata and said, “He’s not the Ghost.”

  “He’d have been too weak to stalk and kill Chief Ejima or Colonel Ibe,” Hirata agreed. “And he certainly couldn’t have invaded your compound and escaped last night.”

  Yet although discouragement filled Sano, his captive wasn’t necessarily a dead end. He asked Iwakura the whereabouts of Yanagisawa’s other fugitive troops, naming each. Iwakura revealed that one was dead; four others had gone to ground in the provinces last winter, and he hadn’t seen them since.

  “What about Kobori Banzan?” Sano said.

  Iwakura groaned; his throat contracted. “Here.”

  “Here?” Sano frowned in surprise. “At the Jade Pavilion?” He and Hirata and the detectives exchanged glances, wondering if one of the other men they’d caught was the last of the missing seven—and the Ghost.

  “Not now,” Iwakura said. “We were hiding out in this room. But he left.”

  “When?” Sano demanded.

  “Yesterday. Or the day before.” Delirium clouded Iwakura’s eyes. “I don’t remember.”

  Sano desperately wanted Kobori to be the Ghost, for if he wasn’t, Sano didn’t know who else was or where to look for the assassin. “Does Kobori know the technique of dim-mak?”

  Moments passed while Iwakura squeezed his eyes shut and fought a silent battle with pain. Sano told Hirata, “Give him some opium.”

  Hirata opened the vial and poured a few drops of the potion into Iwakura’s mouth. Soon Iwakura relaxed as the pain eased. Sano repeated his question. Iwakura nodded. “I never knew before. He kept it secret. But yesterday ... or whenever it was ...” His gaze blurred while his mind wandered. “Before he left, I asked him to kill me. I’m dying, I’m no good for anything. I wanted him to cut my throat and put me out of my misery. He said he couldn’t—it would make trouble.”

  Such a death would have appeared to be murder, which would have focused police attention on the occupants of this room. Kobori the fugitive wouldn’t have wanted that.

  “But he said he would help me. He touched my head. He said I would die soon. It would look natural.”

  Sano held the lamp close to Iwakura’s head. There, on the thin, waxy skin near the temple, he could just make out a fingerprint-shaped bruise. Sano inwardly cursed his bad luck. That he’d just missed the assassin!

  “Where did Kobori go?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. A woman came to see him. He went off with her.”

  Shock flashed across Sano’s nerves. “Who was she?”

  Iwakura quaked and grunted in another convulsion. “I think he called her Yugao.”

  And here was confirmation that Yugao and the Ghost were together, just as Reiko had suggested. Sano whistled out his breath in a rush, marveling that her investigation had brought him a break in his. Yet when he pressed Iwakura to remember if the couple had said anything to indicate where they meant to go, the man gritted his teeth and said, “I’ve already told you everything I know. Give me the opium!”

  Sano nodded to Hirata, but Iwakura suddenly convulsed again. His body stiffened, his eyes closed, and the life deserted him. The touch of death had taken effect. As Sano beheld the corpse, he thought, That could be me soon.

  “If only we could have arrived earlier,” Hirata lamented.

  “But at least we know who the Ghost is,” Sano said, his spirits buoyed despite his disappointment. “That’s a big advantage. And we know that he and Yugao are together. A couple should be easier to find than a man alone.”

  * * *

  27

  Noon had come and gone before Sano and Hirata returned to Edo Castle. As they rode through the passages with their detectives, the sun shone but clouds massed beyond the distant hills. The swampy, fetid scent of the river saturated the cool wind. The castle wasn’t as deserted as yesterday; soldiers escorted officials about their business. But their manners were subdued as they bowed to Sano in passing: Fear of the death-touch still pervaded the castle. Sano spotted Captain Nakai loitering near a checkpoint. Their gazes met, and Nakai seemed about to speak, but Sano turned away from his original prime suspect, an embarrassing reminder of the wrong turn his investigation had taken at the start. When Sano and his men arrived in his compound, Reiko came hurrying out of the mansion to meet him.

  “What happened?” Her face was filled with gladness at seeing Sano alive. “Did you find them?”

  Sano watched her air of expectancy fade at the discouragement on their faces. “You were right about Yugao and the Ghost. But we were too late.” He told her what had happened at the Jade Pavilion.

  “Have you spent all night looking for him and Yugao?”

  “Yes,” Sano said. “We questioned the other guests at the inn, but Kobori kept to himself while he was living there, and they couldn’t tell us where he and Yugao might have gone.”

  “The sentries at three neighborhood gates near the Jade Pavilion saw a couple that fit their description pass by yesterday,” Hirata said. “But we couldn’t find any other witnesses who remember them.”

  “They must have realized they were conspicuous and traveled separately,” Sano said. “My troops are out searching every neighborhood, starting near the Jade Pavilion, warning every headman and gate sentry to be on the lookout for Kobori and Yugao.” Exhaustion washed over Sano and his spirits fell. This massive search was like hunting for two bad grains of rice in a thousand bales. “We came home to put more men on the streets.”

  “Well,” Reiko said, "it’s a good thing you came home, because there have been some urgent messages for you. Lord Matsudaira has sent his envoys here three times this morning. He wants to see you, and he’s getting impatient.”

  Sano’s spirits plummeted lower. He could just imagine how Lord Matsudaira would react when he heard about last night’s episode. “Anything else?”

  “One of your detectives came by, Hirata-san,” said Reiko. “He’s found that priest you were looking for.”

  Sano was so tired that he had to think for a moment before he remembered what priest. “Ozuno,” he said. “The wandering holy man who might know the secret martial art of dim-mak.”

  “Where is he?” Hirata asked Reiko.

  “At Chion Temple in Inaricho district.”

  Two days ago, when Sano had first heard of the priest, Ozuno had seemed crucial to the investigation, but he’d lost importance. “Now that we know who the Ghost is, we don’t need Ozuno to tell us.”

  “He might still be useful,” Hirata said. “Two martial artists who share the secret of dim-mak, both in Edo, must know each other. Maybe the priest can help us find the Ghost.”

  “You’re right. Go to Chion Temple and talk to Ozuno. I’ll expand the search for Yugao and Kobori, then deal with Lord Matsudaira.” Sano braced himself for an explosion. Maybe he would drop dead before Lord Matsudaira could punish him.

  “I still think Yugao’s friend Tama knows more than she told me yesterday,” Reiko said. “I’ll pay her another visit.”

  The sector known as Inaricho bordered on the edge of the Asakusa Temple district. Hirata and his detectives rode through streets crowded with religious pilgrims. Shops displayed Buddhist altars, rosaries, candleholders, statues, vases of gilt metal lotus flowers, and name tablets for funerals. Gongs rang in the small, modest temples that had proliferated in Inaricho. The rustic speech of pilgrims, the cries of roving peddlers, and smoke from crematoriums flavored the bright afternoon.

  “Chion Temple is somewhere around here,” Hirata said.

  They were passing one of the district’s many cemeteries when an unusual sight caught Hirata’s eye. Toward him along the road walked an old man, limping on a lame right leg, leaning on a wooden staff. He had long, unkempt gray hair and a stern face deeply lined and suntanned. He wore a round black skullcap, a short, tattered kimono, loose breeches printed with arcane symbols, and cloth leggings. A short sword dangled at his waist. Frayed straw sandals shod his
bare feet. On his back he carried a wooden chest hung from a shoulder harness decorated with orange bobbles.

  “It’s a yamabushi,” Hirata said, recognizing the old man as a priest of the small, exclusive Shugendo sect that practiced an arcane blend of Buddhist and Shinto religion laced with Chinese sorcery. He and the detectives paused to watch the priest.

  “Doesn’t his sect have temples in the Yoshino Mountains? I wonder what he’s doing so far from there,” said Detective Arai.

  “He must be on a pilgrimage,” Detective Inoue said. The yamabushi were known for making long, arduous trips to ancient holy sites, where they performed strange rituals that involved sitting under ice-cold waterfalls in an attempt to achieve divine enlightenment. Rumors said that they were spies for secret anti-Tokugawa conspirators, or goblins in human disguise.

  “Is it true that yamabushi have mystical powers?” Arai said as the priest limped nearer. “Can they really cast out demons, talk with animals, and put out fires by sheer mental concentration?”

  Hirata laughed. “That’s probably just an old legend.” The yamabushi was a just a cripple like himself, he thought glumly.

  Five samurai ambled out from a teahouse opposite the cemetery. They wore the crests of different daimyo clans, and Hirata recognized them as the kind of young, dissolute men who sneaked away from their duties to rove in gangs about town and look for trouble. He’d arrested many such as them for brawling in the streets during his days as a police officer. Now the gang spied the yamabushi. They wove through the passing crowds and eddied around him.

  “Hey, old man,” said one of the samurai.

  Another blocked the priest’s path. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  The yamabushi stopped, his expression unperturbed. “Let me pass,” he said in a gruff, strangely resonant voice.

  “Don’t you tell us what to do,” the first samurai said.

  He and his gang began shoving and mocking the priest. They yanked off his shoulder harness. His wooden chest fell on the ground. The samurai picked it up and heaved it into the cemetery. The yamabushi stood passive, leaning on his staff.