Her words cut Masahiro as if they were knives. He couldn’t move or speak.
“Go away!” Okaru shrilled. She sat up, grabbed the teapot, and hurled it.
Masahiro ducked. The pot hit the wall. Tea splashed. The pot and lid landed on the tatami floor in a pool of hot liquid. Okaru burst into wild, loud sobbing. Goza hurried into the room, shoved Masahiro aside, and knelt beside Okaru.
Okaru threw herself into Goza’s arms and wailed, “I’m so miserable! I want to die!”
Goza scowled at Masahiro. “You’d better go.”
* * *
Hirata rode in widening arcs away from the blacksmiths’ quarter, his senses attuned to the aura of the man who’d attacked Magistrate Ueda. But the man was too long gone; the energy emitted by other people masked the residue of his aura. It was like hunting for one star amid the cosmos. At noon Hirata found himself in the area north of the Nihonbashi Bridge, near Odenmacho-the post-horse quarter, which offered horses for hire and served as the center of the national messenger system. The government employed messengers to carry documents between cities. A messenger dispatched from Edo would run to the next stage along the highway and pass his documents on to the next man. Fast runners could cover the distance to Miyako in sixty hours. Hirata passed the horse stables and the cheap inns, teahouses, and food-stalls where the messengers waited for work. He stopped outside a barbershop.
Its narrow room, behind a dingy plank storefront, was a favorite haunt of mystic martial artists. The barber gave his customers the latest news, gleaned from the messengers, while he cut their hair. Those who lived in Edo came to drink and visit and to meet itinerant comrades who stopped by. The nature of the barbershop was known only to its select community. No one else who peeked in would realize that its few ordinary-looking patrons had enough combat skill to defeat an army. Outsiders would feel a need to leave the premises. The patrons liked their privacy, and they projected energy that repelled the uninitiated.
Hirata hesitated at the door. Seeking Magistrate Ueda’s attacker was his top priority, his duty to Sano, and he should be hunting for witnesses. He also had to help Sano bring the forty-seven ronin business to a safe conclusion. But he kept thinking about the samurai named Tahara, who’d said they would meet again. Hirata must prepare.
He entered the barbershop. It was warm from the hearth, the plank walls and ceiling darkened by soot and tobacco smoke. The barber sat alone, sharpening his razors. A seventy-year-old ronin named Iseki, he had a face as lined as a crumpled piece of paper, and he’d been a formidable mystic martial artist until, decades ago, an earthquake had brought a house down on him and crushed his sword arm. Hirata watched Iseki deftly handling a razor and sharpening stone. Iseki managed as well with one hand as most men did with two, but his fighting days were long over.
“Greetings, Hirata-san,” Iseki said. “What can I do for you?”
“I need some information.”
“Just ask.”
“Do you know a samurai named Tahara?”
Concern gathered the wrinkles on Iseki’s face together. “Not personally, but I’ve heard of him. He’s from Iga Province.” Iga Province had its own tradition of mystic martial arts. Its samurai had learned from the ninja, a cult of peasant warriors adept in stealth. “His kind stick to themselves. They don’t come around here. But I can tell you that I wouldn’t have wanted to go up against Tahara even when I was in my prime. Do you know him?”
“Not yet.” Everything Hirata had just heard increased his apprehension about his next meeting with Tahara.
“I’m surprised,” Iseki said. “I thought you would.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a disciple of Ozuno.”
The news disconcerted Hirata. Ozuno was his teacher and mentor, from whom he’d learned the mystic martial arts. “Ozuno never mentioned Tahara.”
But why not? Ozuno had introduced Hirata to his other disciples. The idea that the omission was deliberate bothered Hirata. Had Ozuno wanted to conceal Tahara’s existence from him? His dread worsened. That Tahara had Ozuno’s training plus a background in the dark arts made him a formidable adversary indeed.
“What else can you tell me about him?” Hirata asked.
“His clan are bodyguards and secret police for the daimyo of Iga Province. Tahara came to Edo about two years ago.”
For me, Hirata thought.
“Rumor says that the daimyo loans Tahara out to other people and Tahara is presently working for the Tokugawa regime,” Iseki said.
That would explain how Tahara had access to Edo Castle. “Does he have any friends in town? Specifically, a priest and a soldier?”
“The priest is Deguchi, from Ueno Temple. The soldier is Kitano Shigemasa. They’re both great fighters.” Iseki gave Hirata a curious glance. “Don’t you know them either? They’re two more of Ozuno’s disciples.”
“No,” Hirata said, “he never mentioned them.” It seemed that Ozuno had deliberately kept him from these three fellow disciples. Now they’d banded together against him.
“My condolences, by the way,” Iseki said.
“What for?”
Iseki looked grave, sympathetic, and puzzled all at once. “Ozuno’s death. Is that something else you didn’t know about?”
Hirata felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. “I didn’t.”
“Sorry to deliver the bad news.”
“How did Ozuno die? And where?” Hirata had known that Ozuno was ancient, but he’d seemed immortal.
“At a temple in Nara where he was staying. He went peacefully in his sleep.”
“When was this?” Hirata said.
“About two years ago.”
That was around the same time that Tahara had come after Hirata. It couldn’t be a coincidence. But what did Tahara and his friends want?
“If you hear anything about Tahara or his friends, will you let me know?” Hirata said.
“I will.” Iseki warned, “If I were you, I would avoid them at all cost.”
26
Sano went to the secluded compound inside Edo Castle where Chamberlain Yanagisawa lived. It had become Sano’s home when Yanagisawa was exiled, when Sano had been promoted to chamberlain. Sano had continued living there after Yanagisawa’s return, while he and Yanagisawa had served as co-chamberlains. But after Sano’s demotion, Yanagisawa had reclaimed his compound. Now Sano looked over the stone wall at the rooftops of the barracks where he’d once housed his retainers and the mansion in which his daughter had been born. It didn’t matter that the compound had originally belonged to Yanagisawa. The reminder of what Sano had lost enflamed his rage toward Yanagisawa.
The gate opened from inside, to let out a group of officials. Sano strode in without waiting for permission.
“Hey, you can’t go in there!” The sentries ran after Sano.
Sano marched into the mansion. By the time he reached the anteroom outside Yanagisawa’s office he had some twenty guards trailing him. They ordered him to stop, but they were obviously afraid to lay a hand on him. Perhaps they thought he’d gone mad. Sano swept past the crowd waiting to see the chamberlain. He threw open the door of the office he’d once called his own. There Yanagisawa sat on the dais in the study niche at a black lacquer desk. With him were Kato and Ihara, his cronies from the Council of Elders.
“Sano-san,” Yanagisawa said. Irritation failed to conceal his dismay that his foe had breached his security. “How did you get in here?”
“Never mind,” Sano said. “I want to talk to you.”
“Should we throw him out?” asked one of the guards crowded together in the doorway.
“No. I’ll hear what he has to say.” Yanagisawa raised his eyebrow at Sano’s expression. “You seem upset. But of course, your father-in-law was attacked last night. My condolences.”
His sympathy was so patently false that Sano wanted to throttle Yanagisawa. “How do you know about the attack?”
“Word has filtered up to Edo Castle,” I
hara said. He and Kato looked uncertain as to whether they wanted to watch the scene between Sano and Yanagisawa or leave before they got burned by the fireworks.
“My intelligence system is very efficient, as you’re aware,” Yanagisawa said smoothly.
Hatred threatened to overcome Sano’s self-control. “You didn’t need spies this time. I think you knew about the attack before it happened.”
Yanagisawa chuckled. “How? I’ve many talents, but I’m not a fortune-teller.”
“Drop the innocent act,” Sano said. “The answer is obvious.”
Both of Yanagisawa’s eyebrows rose, in mock astonishment. “Do you mean that you think I was behind the attack?”
“Were you?”
“That’s absurd.” Yanagisawa laughed, flashing his sharp, perfect teeth. “Why would I want to attack Magistrate Ueda?”
“Just answer the question.”
“If you insist.” Yanagisawa spoke with emphasis: “I am not responsible for the attack on Magistrate Ueda.” He looked Sano straight in the eye.
Sano couldn’t tell if he was lying. Yanagisawa was a consummate actor.
The sardonic humor vanished from Yanagisawa’s expression. The room turned cold with his hostility toward Sano. “Now you can answer my question: Why would I have wanted to attack Magistrate Ueda? That’s the very least you owe me after barging into my house.”
“If you insist,” Sano said. “You want the supreme court to condemn the forty-seven ronin. You knew that Magistrate Ueda is leading the faction that wants to pardon them, because you barged in on the court yesterday. You figured that if you killed him, you would shift the balance toward the verdict you want.” Sano felt the fever of his craving for battle. “My father-in-law was nothing to you but an inconvenience to eliminate!”
“I repeat, that’s absurd,” Yanagisawa said flatly. “In the first place, why do you think I want the forty-seven ronin condemned? I’ve never said so. I have no opinion on the issue.”
“Because you think it’s the verdict that would cause the most negative reaction and bring the shogun’s wrath down on me,” Sano hazarded.
“Rubbish. In the second place, I was at home last night. My retainers will confirm that.”
“Of course they will. They’re beholden to you. And you could have sent one of them.”
“In the third place,” Yanagisawa said, “if I want to influence the verdict, I can do it without resorting to murder. A little coercion from me, and the judges will rush to cooperate.”
Although Sano knew it was true, he still had reason to think Yanagisawa was guilty. “Even if you really don’t care which way the verdict goes, you see this case as a chance to get rid of me at last.”
Amusement colored Yanagisawa’s hostility. “You think everything is about you and me. You’re obsessed.”
“The obsession is yours, not mine,” Sano said coldly. “You’re the one who’s been fixated on destroying me. You’ve attacked me again and again, even though I did nothing to deserve it. So excuse me for thinking that the attack on Magistrate Ueda is more of the same.”
“Your mind is stuck in the past. I don’t need to attack you anymore. I’ve already beaten you.”
“Not quite. I’m still here.”
Yanagisawa smiled a thin, cruel smile. “Just barely. And not for long. The forty-seven ronin case will be the end of you, no matter which way the verdict goes.”
Sano was all too aware of that probability, but he said, “That’s what you’ve hoped about every other case I’ve investigated. And you’re forgetting that this case could take down other people besides me. You’re not immune to the consequences of a verdict that’s sure to be unpopular.”
He saw a flicker of apprehension on Yanagisawa’s face. But Yanagisawa retorted, “You’re forgetting something, too: Other people are far more incensed about the forty-seven ronin than I am. And I’m not the only one who knew where the judges stood as of yesterday.”
“Confidentiality is a joke,” Kato interjected.
“Fourteen judges equal fourteen holes in the court,” Ihara said. “Too many to plug.”
It had occurred to Sano that judges might have leaked the content of their discussion to persons outside the court. He would worry about that possibility later. “Don’t bother trying to deflect my suspicions. You knew, and I think you used what you heard to your own advantage.”
Yanagisawa’s eyes gleamed maliciously. “You knew, too. You were there.”
“Your friend Inspector General Nakae was nice enough to point that out to me already,” Sano said. “I suppose you’re going to follow his example and say I attacked my own father-in-law, then accuse me of trying to frame you.”
“That is a good theory,” Yanagisawa said. The elders nodded. “But I’ll grant you this: I don’t believe you tried to assassinate Magistrate Ueda. You’re not that ruthless.”
“Thank you.” Sarcasm edged Sano’s voice.
“However, one could argue that what happened to Magistrate Ueda is indeed your fault,” Yanagisawa said.
“What kind of smoke are you fanning up now?” Sano demanded.
“You’ve had numerous opportunities to kill me,” Yanagisawa said. “During your first investigation for the shogun, for example, when you got me and that mad killer out on a boat on the Sumida River. You could have drowned me, with nobody the wiser.”
Sano wondered where the conversation was going. “I couldn’t,” he said with regret. “You were my superior. I owed you the same loyalty as I owed the shogun.”
“That wasn’t the only time you could have eliminated me with no witnesses,” Yanagisawa said. “Twelve years ago, while we were in Miyako, you trapped me at swordpoint. Why didn’t you just cut my throat?”
“The same reason. Honor. Duty.” The principles of Bushido that governed Sano’s actions, that frequently opposed his desires. Sano often thought that Bushido was like an iron weight around the neck of a man swimming in a shark-infested sea.
“After I was exiled, you realized that I’d sneaked back to Edo,” Yanagisawa went on. “You could have found me and secretly killed me while everyone else thought I was still on Hachijo Island. It would have seemed as if I’d vanished into thin air.”
Had that idea occurred to him? Sano recalled that he’d concentrated on exposing Yanagisawa’s machinations while solving a murder case in which his mother was the primary suspect.
“It’s what I would have done,” Yanagisawa said.
“I’m not you,” Sano said, proud that he’d never stooped to such a tactic.
“Indeed you’re not.” Yanagisawa matched Sano’s pride. “You don’t have my imagination or foresight.”
“The gods be praised,” Sano said.
“But suppose-just suppose-that I was responsible for the attack on Magistrate Ueda. You could have prevented it if you’d seized one of your chances to kill me. I couldn’t have attacked him if I were dead, could I?” Yanagisawa pointed a finger at Sano. “If your theory that the attack was my doing is correct, then you’re ultimately to blame. Because you could have protected Magistrate Ueda by killing me a long time ago and you didn’t.”
“That’s the most convoluted logic I’ve ever heard,” Sano exclaimed.
“Your justifications for your actions are the most feeble excuses I’ve ever heard.” Yanagisawa moved out from behind his desk, stepped off the dais, and faced Sano. “You say it was loyalty and duty. I say you’re hiding behind Bushido. You’re afraid to do what a real samurai would, to seize the upper hand. You’re afraid of the consequences. You”-his finger jabbed Sano’s chest-“are nothing but a coward.”
Coward. Coward. Coward. The worst insult that a samurai could receive echoed through Sano like the tolling of a bell. Rage exploded inside him with such force that at first he couldn’t speak. Caught in a firestorm of howling winds, leaping flames, and smoke laden with hot ash and stinging cinders, he choked while his heart thudded furiously. He saw Yanagisawa’s sneering face as if thr
ough the orange haze of the fire.
“How dare you?” was all he could manage to say.
“How dare I tell you the truth about yourself? How dare I humiliate you in front of our colleagues?” Yanagisawa laughed. “Oh, I dare. Because I’m not afraid. No matter what people think of me, no one would ever call me a coward.” He mimicked Sano’s words: “I’m not you.”
The firestorm of rage burned hotter, fueled by a voice that whispered in Sano’s mind, Maybe Yanagisawa is right. Maybe I am a coward because I’ve endured insults and injuries for all these years instead of putting an end to it once and for all.
“Well, look at that, everyone!” Yanagisawa pointed at Sano’s hip. “Maybe he has some samurai courage after all.”
Sano looked down. He saw that his hand had moved involuntarily to his sword. His fingers gripped the hilt. The hot cyclone of his rage swirled around him, but a deadly quiet settled over his body, as if he stood in the eye of the firestorm.
“Here I am,” Yanagisawa said. “Do what you’ve been wanting to do all these years.” He flung his arms wide, offered himself as a target.
The temptation was so strong that Sano forgot the prohibition against drawing a sword inside Edo Castle. He forgot Bushido. His muscles tensed to draw the weapon.
“Go ahead,” Yanagisawa said with a tantalizing smile. “Prove that you’re a real samurai.”
Even as Sano felt the impulse to kill rise like a monster inside him, Yanagisawa, the room, and the other men in it faded from his vision. He was walking down the Corridor of Pines. Kajikawa, the keeper of the castle, appeared and spoke words that Sano didn’t hear. A door opened along the corridor between them. Out stepped Kira. Sano charged at Kira, drew his sword, gripped it in both hands, and swung.
Everything went black.
Then Sano was back in the office with Yanagisawa and the elders, who were eagerly waiting to see what he would do. Sano stood thunderstruck by his vision in which he’d been Lord Asano. The shock restored his wits. He realized that Yanagisawa was goading him into emulating Lord Asano. If he took the bait, he would be sentenced to death.
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