OUTSTANDING PRAISE FOR LAURA JOH ROWLAND’S
SANO ICHIR THRILLERS
Red Chrysanthemum
“A careful, beautiful portrayal of a dangerous time in Japanese history…compelling and lively.”
—Dallas Morning News
“A blend [of] political intrigue and barbed sexual commentary.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“A page-turner…Rowland matches her talent for storytelling with her ability to render convincing historical detail.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Rowland’s historical detail and graceful prose enhance another solid mystery.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Rowland puts her own spin on the multiple storytelling tactics invented five decades ago in the movie Rashomon, adding an extra dimension to her long-running series…. The tension leads to a corker of a denouement—one that opens up new doors for future series offerings.”
—Baltimore Sun
The Assasin’s Touch
“Sano may carry a sword and wear a kimono, but you’ll immediately recognize him as an ancestor of Philip Marlowe or Sam Spade.”
—The Denver Post
“Evocative detail and suspense…Rowland’s characters remain fresh.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A welcome breath of fresh air.”
—Booklist
“Elegantly told and interspersed with delicious bits of history.”
—Kirkus Reviews
The Perfumed Sleeve
“Deftly combining a classic whodunit with vivid period detail, Rowland raises the stakes for her next book with an unexpected twist at the end that promises to present her dogged but fallible hero with even more difficulties in the future.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Think James Clavell meets Raymond Chandler.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
The Dragon King’s Palace
“Rowland’s masterful evocation of the period enables the reader to identify with the universal human emotions and drives that propel her characters while absorbing numerous telling details of a different culture and era.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A lively dissection of the samurai code of honor, sexual dishonor, palace infighting, and ancient Japanese mores.”
—Kirkus Reviews
The Pillow Book of Lady Wisteria
“This series just keeps getting better and better.”
—Booklist
“Delicate prose and a plot full of the overtones and under-currents that shade real life push Rowland’s latest historical beyond the standard whodunit. All the animosity and fear in this seamless work is put forth in demure language that perfectly suits the culture Rowland portrays.”
—Publishers Weekly
Black Lotus
“Well-developed characters, a complex, absorbing plot, and rich historical detail should help win the author a place on mystery bestseller lists.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Laura Joh Rowland’s richly detailed books about a 17th-century Japanese samurai-warrior-turned-detective are…packed with plot narrative.”
—Chicago Tribune
The Samurai’s Wife
“As a fan of Shogun, it’s easy to say that The Samurai’s Wife provided me with the same sense of place and culture that was so invigorating in James Clavell’s epic yarn…. Rowland’s a pretty terrific storyteller.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Rowland delineates the distinctions of her characters with subtlety and pulls together the strands of her multifaceted plot with enviable grace.”
—Publishers Weekly
“An authentically detailed and wonderfully involving historical novel.”
—Library Journal
The Concubine’s Tattoo
“Rowland’s understanding of the society she depicts shines through, and she succeeds in presenting Sano as an intriguing combination of wiliness and decency, making this a good bet for fans of historicals as well as of mysteries past.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Rowland is deepening and broadening her distinctie series in interesting ways. She expertly evokes an exotic world—in its difference and brooding darkness—that can be confused with no other…. Both author and detective come through with colors flying.”
—The Times-Picayune
“A fascinating, well-researched, and action-filled costume adventure.”
—Library Journal
“Rowland offers fascinating glimpses into the culture of medieval Japan.”
—Booklist
ALSO BY LAURA JOH ROWLAND
Red Chrysanthemum
The Assassin’s Touch
The Perfumed Sleeve
The Dragon King’s Palace
The Pillow Book of Lady Wisteria
Black Lotus
The Samurai’s Wife
The Concubine’s Tattoo
The Way of the Traitor
Bundori
Shinj
THE SNOW EMPRESS
Laura Joh Rowland
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
In memory of Fat Boy, 1988–2007
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteeen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ezogashima
Genroku Period
Year 12, Month 9
(Hokkaido, October 1699)
Prologue
She hastened along a narrow, winding path illuminated by the full autumn moon that shone upon the forest. Her feet, clad in high-soled lacquer sandals, stumbled over the rough terrain. Branches reached out from the darkness and snagged her long hair and her flowing silk robes. A chill wind stripped leaves off boughs that waved and creaked. Wolves howled.
Having grown unaccustomed to physical exertion, she panted, inhaling the odors of pine and dead leaves tinged by smoke. Her heart beat faster with anger. She had better things to do than ramble through the cold night! She hated the forests; she shrank from the eerie voices of the spirits that inhabited the wilderness. If she had her way, she would never venture outdoors again. She didn’t belong here, even though her ancestors had called this land home since the beginning of time. How much better to relax in a warm, lit, comfortable room than to bother with this foolish business!
Huffing in exasperation, she peered ahead through the whispering shadows. But she saw no one, heard no footfalls nor breaths except her own. Her tongue brimmed with scathing words. She quickened her pace, eager to settle matters for good.
Against her shin pressed a line of tension, as if from a vine grown across the path. She tripped. At the same time, she h
eard a loud snap. Instinctive fear seized her. She recognized that sound. As she pitched forward, arms flung wide to catch herself, a whizzing noise cleaved the night, rushing through the forest toward her. A hard thump struck her chest below her right breast. Sharpness pierced deep between her ribs. She fell, screaming in terrified pain. Her hands and knees smacked the ground. The impact punched the breath from her lungs. She groped at her breast, searching for the source of the agony.
She found a long, thin, rounded wooden shaft. The end embedded in her flesh was made of iron. The opposite end had two bristly ridges of feathers. It was an arrow.
Blood spilled from the wound, gleaming black in the moonlight, warm and wet on her fingers. The pain was cruel as a hungry animal savaging organs and sinews. It tore gasps and whimpers from her. But she knew that worse was yet to come. She knew what she must do if she wanted to save her life.
She closed her hands around the shaft and pulled. The arrowhead ripped through tissue already torn, scraped bones on its way out. Her shriek blared through the forest. The arrow came free in a gout of blood, dropped from her hands. Black stars coalesced in her vision, obliterating the moonlight. Faintness weakened her. Moaning, she fumbled at her sash. But she’d long ago ceased the habit of carrying a knife. She clawed desperately at her breast, tearing the skin that encircled the wound. Bits came off under her fingernails; all the while more blood poured out.
Yet she realized it was no use. The arrow had gone too deep, touched her innards, planted destruction. Dizziness and chills attacked her. The moon blazed as bright and hot as the sun. A choking sensation clenched her throat; nausea embroiled her stomach. The spirits of the forest rose up and whirled around her, cawing like carrion birds.
She lurched to her feet and down the path the way she’d come. She called out for help, but the one who might have rushed to her aid did not. Everybody else was too far away to hear, let alone rescue her. Convulsions shuddered through her, knocked her to the ground. She keened in anguished protest.
She heard the spirits laughing and exclaiming triumphantly: Now you’ll never leave us.
A world away, in the city of Edo, the autumn moon shone upon Zj Temple. Warm, mellow light gilded the pagoda. Conversation and laughter rose from the crowd gathered in the garden to view the moon on this summery night. Fashionably dressed samurai and ladies reclined on the grass, composing poetry. Servants poured wine and passed out moon-cakes. Children ran and squealed in delight. Samurai boys fought mock battles, their wooden swords clattering, their shouts loud above the boom of temple gongs. Incense smoke spiced the air. Flames in stone lanterns chased the darkness to the perimeters of the garden, where pine trees shadowed the landscape.
Chamberlain Sano Ichir and his wife, Lady Reiko, sat amid friends and attendants, laughing at silly poems they recited. But although Sano was enjoying this rare time away from the business of running the government, he couldn’t relax completely. Too many years as a target for political plots had taught him caution. Now the hour was late, and Sano’s party had a long ride back to Edo Castle, through city streets where rebels marauded.
Raising his wine cup, he announced, “One last toast to our good fortune! Then we must go home.”
Amid groans of disappointment, his attendants prepared to depart, calling farewells to nearby groups. Sano said to Reiko, “Now if only we can find that son of ours.”
Masahiro was eight years old; independent and grownup, he preferred to rollick with friends his age rather than sit sedately beside his elders.
“I’ll fetch him.” Reiko walked through the crowd to the boys playing war. “Masahiro! Time to go.”
There was no answer. He probably didn’t want to leave the fun, Reiko thought. Her gaze darted among the running, yelling boys. She didn’t see Masahiro with them. Less worried than impatient, she moved toward the garden’s edge. Perhaps he was hiding in the woods. Then she spied an object that lay on the ground near the pine trees.
It was Masahiro’s toy sword. A replica of a real samurai weapon, it had a hilt bound in black silk cord, a brass guard decorated with his flying-crane family crest, and a wooden blade. Reiko’s impatience turned to alarm because her son would never run off and leave behind his most prized possession.
“Masahiro!” she cried, frantically scanning the other children, the gay crowd, the temple. Dread invaded her heart. “Where are you?”
Edo
Genroku Period
Year 12, Month 10
(Tokyo, November 1699)
Chapter One
A gray, clouded twilight befell Edo. Thin drizzle glazed the capital’s tile roofs and subdued the crowds trudging through the wet streets. The cold vapors of late autumn floated on the Sumida River. Mist rendered Edo Castle almost invisible upon its hilltop and drenched the lights in its guard turrets.
Seated inside his office in his compound within the castle, Sano saw Detective Marume, one of his two personal bodyguards, standing at the threshold. He paused in the middle of a letter he was dictating to his secretary. “Well? Did you find him?” he demanded.
The sad expression on the burly detective’s normally cheerful face was answer enough. The hope that had risen in Sano drowned in disappointment.
Masahiro had been missing for almost two months, since the moon-viewing party. Sano still had troops out searching, to no avail. The possibility of kidnapping had occurred to him, even though no ransom demand had come. He had suspicions about who might be responsible, but he’d investigated all his enemies and come up with no clues that tied Masahiro’s disappearance to them; in fact, no clues at all. Every day Masahiro was gone Sano grew more desperate to find his beloved son, and more afraid he never would.
“I’m sorry,” Marume said. “The sighting was another false lead.”
False leads had taunted Sano from the beginning. At first he and Reiko had thrilled to each new report that a boy who fit Masahiro’s description had been spotted in this or that place. But as the hunt had gone on and on, as their hopes were cruelly dashed time after time, Sano had come to dread new leads. He couldn’t bear to tell Reiko that this last one had come to naught, to see her suffer.
The only hardship more terrible for them than another day without Masahiro was not knowing what had happened to him.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find your boy,” Marume said, as if anxious to convince himself.
Fighting the idea that despite all his power, his troops, and his wealth he couldn’t bring Masahiro back, striving to remain optimistic, Sano said, “Any new information?”
Marume hesitated, then said, “Not today.”
The only thing worse than false leads was no leads at all. Sano felt his endurance crumbling under a wave of grief, but he couldn’t fall apart. Not only his wife but the Tokugawa regime depended on him. “Keep the search going. Don’t give up.”
“Will do,” Marume said.
A manservant came to the door. “Excuse me, Honorable Chamberlain. There’s a message from the shogun. He wants to see you in the palace right away.”
Sano was reminded that the disappearance of his son was only one of his troubles.
Sano found the shogun in his bath chamber. Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, the military dictator of Japan, sat naked in the sunken tub of steaming water. A blind masseur rubbed his withered shoulders. The shogun’s favorite companion, a beautiful youth named Yoritomo, lounged close to him in the tub. Guards and servants hovered nearby. Lord Matsudaira, the shogun’s cousin, crouched next to the door. He was sweating in his armor, his stoic expression not hiding his resentment that he must dance attendance on his cousin or lose influence over him and control over the regime.
“Greetings, Chamberlain Sano,” he said.
Five years ago, Lord Matsudaira had set out to take over the regime because he thought he would be a better dictator than the weak, foolish shogun was. His first step was to eliminate the former chamberlain, Yanagisawa, who’d been the shogun’s lover and ruled Japan from behind the throne. Lord Matsudai
ra had defeated Yanagisawa on the battlefield and exiled him. But Lord Matsudaira had had a harder time maintaining power than achieving it. Now antagonism toward Sano iced his polite manner. Sano felt his guard go up against this man who’d become his personal enemy.
“Are you surprised to see me?” Lord Matsudaira asked.
“Not at all.” Sano was displeased to find Lord Matsudaira here but had expected as much. Lord Matsudaira was always around when Sano saw the shogun, the better to prevent them from getting too close.
“Perhaps, then,” Lord Matsudaira said, “you’re disappointed that I’m still alive after last night’s incident.”
Sano guessed what was coming. Not again, he thought in dismay. “What incident?”
“A firebomb was thrown into my villa on the river while I was hosting a banquet there,” said Lord Matsudaira.
“Dear me, how terrible,” murmured the shogun. “It seems as if this sort of thing is, ahh, always happening to you.”
Although Lord Matsudaira had purged the regime of Yanagisawa’s allies, subjugating some and banishing or executing others, Yanagisawa still had underground partisans fighting Lord Matsudaira with covert acts of violence. And Lord Matsudaira was so insecure in his power that his relations with his own supporters had deteriorated. He harshly punished them for the slightest hint of disloyalty while forcing them to pay large cash tributes to prove their allegiance. He’d created such a climate of fear and disgruntlement that there were many people in his camp who wouldn’t have minded seeing him dead.
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