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

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “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 through 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.

  He would be one obstacle cleared from Yanagisawa’s path toward taking over Japan.

  Reason dashed cold water onto the firestorm of rage. Sano let his hand drop from his sword. The elders’ faces sagged with disappointment and relief. Yanagisawa smirked; he opened his mouth to make another cutting remark.

  Sano hauled back his fist and punched Yanagisawa on the nose. Yanagisawa yelped as the blow slammed his head backward. He lost his balance, fell, and lay on the floor. Blood gushed from his nostrils. He and everyone else regarded Sano with complete, stupid astonishment.

  “You think you have so much foresight, but you didn’t see that coming, did you?” Sano’s fury gave way to humor.

  Yanagisawa began to sputter.

  “How dare I?” Sano mocked. “Oh, I dare. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find out who’s behind the attack on Magistrate Ueda. If it’s you, I won’t let you off with a bloody nose.” Sano strolled out of the room.

  27

  REIKO LEFT HER father in the doctor’s care and went to the part of the mansion that housed the Court of Justice. Today it was empty; all court business had been postponed. Ikeda, the magistrate’s chief retainer, stood at the open door, facing out toward the courtyard which was usually crowded with police officers guarding criminals scheduled for trial. Today it contained only two men, who had the fashionable, well-fed look of prosperous merchants.

  “The magistrate won’t be hearing any disputes for a while,” Ikeda told them.

  “Why not?” asked one of the merchants.

  “Because he’s on the supreme court for the forty-seven rōnin case. And because he was seriously injured last night.”

  “Well, I’m sorry he’s hurt,” the other merchant said, “but it’s not fair that everything should grind to a halt because of those criminals.”


  “They’re not criminals, they’re heroes,” the first merchant said angrily. “They avenged their master’s death.”

  “Go ask the other magistrate to settle your dispute.” Ikeda closed the door, turned, and saw Reiko. “How is your father?”

  “He regained consciousness long enough to tell me something about the man who beat him.” Reiko described the tattoos on the man’s arm.

  “Maybe he’s someone that your father convicted,” Ikeda said. “Maybe he had a grudge.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. I want to search the court records for names of repeat offenders. Will you help me?”

  “Certainly.” Ikeda accompanied Reiko to the magistrate’s office.

  The office was dear to Reiko. When very young, she’d played with her toys and kept her father company while he worked. When she was older, she’d helped him copy his notes into the official records that filled ledgers and scrolls in fireproof iron trunks stacked to the ceiling. The unoccupied desk brought tears to Reiko’s eyes. She and Ikeda lifted down trunks and began sorting through the records. It was no quick task; her father had been magistrate for almost three decades, and he conducted hundreds of trials every year.

  “I wish there were a faster way to weed out cases that involve defendants who obviously didn’t attack my father, like these female thieves and prostitutes,” Reiko said, as she and Ikeda skimmed pages of court proceedings.

  “Your father’s clerks did make a note when a defendant had been previously convicted,” Ikeda said. “Here’s one—but this trial was for his third offense. That’s too many.”

  After two hours, Reiko had made a list of the names of twelve male criminals who each had two convictions and were young enough and presumably able-bodied enough to have managed the attack on Magistrate Ueda. She’d also written down their places of residence.

  “What are the chances that they’re still living there?” she said.

  “Not very good,” Ikeda said. “Perpetual criminals move around a lot. And some of these may not be living at all. Their kind tends to die early.”

  “At least we have some possible suspects.” Reiko tucked the list under her sash. “I’ll give this to my husband. Maybe it will help him catch the assassin.”

  * * *

  HIRATA RETURNED TO Edo Castle at dusk. He’d spent the afternoon hunting for Tahara, Deguchi the priest, and the soldier named Kitano Shigemasa. His sources had told him that Tahara had a house in the Kanda district. Hirata had gone there and spoken to a servant, who’d said that Tahara was out. Next, Hirata had ridden to Ueno Temple. Deguchi wasn’t there; he was ostensibly begging alms in the city. But a monk told Hirata that Deguchi’s friend Kitano was a retainer to Lord Satake. Hirata went to Lord Satake’s estate, where no one would tell him anything about Kitano. By then Hirata was thoroughly frustrated. As he rode up through the walled passages inside the castle, he felt guilty because he should have spent more time investigating the attack on Magistrate Ueda.

  “I hear you’ve been looking for us,” someone behind him said.

  The voice was a blend of smoothness and roughness, instantly familiar. At the same time, Hirata felt the aura strike him like a series of thunderbolts. Hirata froze in his saddle. He clamped his will down on the terror that leaped in him because Tahara had said “us,” not “me.”

  All three of them were here.

  Hirata forced himself to turn nonchalantly. He saw, bracketed by the high stone walls, Tahara and another samurai on horseback and a priest in a hemp cloak and saffron robes standing between them. The cold, drafty passage was empty of other people. Lanterns in the corridors atop the walls cast a dim, flickering glow on the men. Tahara smiled; his eyes twinkled in his handsome, rakish face. Hirata took his first good look at his other stalkers.

  “Kitano-san,” Hirata said.

  The soldier bowed; he removed his iron helmet. He was older than his robust figure had led Hirata to believe—in his fifties. The hair in his topknot was streaked with gray. His skin was a mesh of scars. His eyes crinkled, but the rest of his face remained immobile. The cuts that had made the scars must have damaged his facial nerves.

  “Deguchi-san,” Hirata said.

  At first the priest seemed a mere youth. His long, oval face and shaved head had a smooth complexion untouched by life. He wasn’t handsome—his eyes were too heavily lidded, his nose too flat, and his mouth too pursed—but he had a strange, radiant beauty. Then Hirata noticed the whisker stubble on Deguchi’s cheeks and the tough sinews in his neck. Deguchi could be any age between twenty and forty. He didn’t speak; he only bowed.

  “How does it feel to be the hunted instead of the hunter for a change?” Hirata asked.

  “Don’t be so sure our positions are reversed,” Tahara said with pleasant humor.

  Anger made Hirata belligerent. “I know who the three of you are and where you live.”

  “All that from the one clue that Tahara gave you, his name.” Kitano’s genial voice had a coarse provincial accent. “You’ve lived up to your reputation as a good detective.”

  Deguchi the priest said nothing. He just watched.

  “Apparently you’ve decided that the right time to talk has finally come,” Hirata said.

  “Yes.” Tahara looked behind him. Patrol guards approached. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

  All his instincts told Hirata not to go with the men. Two years’ worth of curiosity wouldn’t let him refuse. He accompanied Tahara, Deguchi, and Kitano to the castle’s herb garden, where the shogun’s apothecaries grew medicinal plants. The garden was deserted, its plots covered with snow tinted mauve by the setting sun. Beyond it loomed the forest preserve. As he jumped off his horse, Hirata tried to quell the hum of anxiety that sped along his nerves. He tried not to show his terror as he faced his adversaries.

  Was this the showdown he’d been dreading?

  Would he die here, tonight?

  He hadn’t said good-bye to his wife, his children, or Sano.

  Would he fail to honor his promise to take care of Sano’s family?

  Tahara and Kitano dismounted. The soldier and priest flanked Tahara, who was clearly their leader. But Hirata knew that the other two men had powers nearly as great as Tahara’s—and greater than his own. He gave in to his urge to delay the battle for as long as possible.

  “Whose aura is it that I’ve been feeling?” he asked.

  “It’s a triad made up of all of ours,” Tahara said.

  Hirata was disturbed to learn that all three men had been present whenever he’d seen or thought it was only one. All of them had been stalking him, as a team. Even worse, Hirata sensed that the sum of their power was not greater than its parts. Each third was still many times greater than his own.

  “Ozuno is dead,” Hirata said. “Did you know?”

  The men’s gazes intensified, their only acknowledgment of the fact that he’d discovered that they were all disciples of the same teacher.

  “Yes,” Tahara said. Emotion veiled the twinkle in his eye.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want us to be the messengers of bad news,” Tahara said. “I thought it wouldn’t make you feel very friendly toward us.”

  “You want me to feel friendly toward you?” Hirata laughed in disbelief. “What do you want with me? To fight?”

  “Oh, good heavens, no,” Tahara said. Deguchi and Kitano shook their heads in disdain. “We’re not like those fools who want to beat you and call themselves the top fighter in Japan.” He spread his arms, as if to embrace his two friends and Hirata. “Here we have the greatest collection of martial artists the world ever saw. If we fought, some or all of us would be killed. What a stupid, boring waste of talent!”

  For two years Hirata had been bracing himself for the fight of his life, and now it wasn’t going to happen. His shameful relief quickly gave way to suspicion. “Then what do you want?”

  “We want you to join us,” Tahara said.

  Con
fused, Hirata said, “Join you, in what?”

  “In our secret society,” Tahara said.

  Never had Hirata imagined that this was the purpose behind the stalking, the poem on the bush, the birds, or the fire at the street show. “What kind of secret society? Who’s in it?”

  “Just us,” Kitano said, “and you, if you decide to join.”

  “We four are Ozuno’s most accomplished disciples,” Tahara said. “We’ve gone further with the mystic martial arts than anyone else ever has. My friends and I aren’t concerned with fighting anymore. It’s time to put our training to better use.”

  Hirata had thought that fighting was a samurai’s ultimate purpose in life, the reason for their training. “What better use is there?”

  “We want to influence the course of fate,” Tahara said, making the proclamation sound at once grand and simple.

  That didn’t enlighten Hirata. “You mean, start a war and make sure your side wins?”

  Tahara shook his head impatiently. “I told you this isn’t about fighting.”

  “Then how do you think you’re going to influence the course of fate?”

  “We’ll work behind the scenes,” Tahara said. “We’ll manipulate things, people, and events. Our actions will be small and unobtrusive, but they will transform the world.”

  Hirata had heard many tales about the feats performed by mystic martial artists. They could defeat armies without striking a single blow; they could cause earthquakes. Most of the tales were exaggerations, but some were true; some of the feats Hirata could perform himself. But he’d never heard anything like this.

  “I can see that you don’t believe me,” Tahara said.

  “You’re right, I don’t,” Hirata said. “How are you supposed to know what actions to take or what they’ll accomplish?”

  “By conducting magic rituals,” Tahara said.

  The society was sounding more preposterous by the moment. “Ozuno never taught me any magic rituals of that kind.”

  “But he knew them,” Kitano said.