High praise for
The Samurai’s Wife
“An exquisite tale of murder, passion, and revenge. Feudal Japan springs to vibrant life under Ms. Rowland’s skillful hand, and the sleuthing team of Sano and Reiko will touch your heart. All lovers of mystery, the Orient, romance, and history will enjoy this magnificent tale.”
—Romantic Times
“The Samurai’s Wife is the latest in Laura Joh Rowland’s bracing books about Sano Ichiro, a 17th-century warrior who serves as a detective for the imperial shogun…. A mixed blessing for Sano is his wife’s insistence—virtually scandalous in feudal Japan—on accompanying him in his investigations; but she proves invaluable in what turns out to be a probe into deep duplicity indeed.”
—Seattle Times
“Palace intrigue, political games, passionate love, the ancient samurai code of bushido, and the practice of martial arts and magic all twine together in this complex and well-plotted story. The struggle to maintain a warrior’s honor in the face of powerful human passions dominates the characters as they work against and with each other to uncover the killer.”
—The Purloined Letter
“With each new book, I marvel at Rowland’s skill…. There are several neat twists at the end, proving Rowland to be at the top of her game.”
—The Poisoned Pen
This book is dedicated to the independent booksellers who have supported my work, especially Britton Trice and Deb Wehmeier of Garden District Book Shop, Barbara Peters of The Poisoned Pen, Tom and Enid Schantz of The Rue Morgue, Patsy Asher of Remember the Alibi, and Dean James of Murder by the Book. My sincere thanks to you all.
Japan
Genroku Period,
Year 4, Month 6
(July 1691)
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Preview
Prologue
Nine hundred years ago, the city was Heian-ky, Capital of Peace and Tranquillity, founded as seat of the emperors who ruled Japan. Now, long after the reigning power had passed to the Tokugawa shoguns and their stronghold in Edo far to the east, it is simply Miyako, or Kyto—the capital. But the shadows of the past haunt the present. The Imperial Palace still dominates the city, as always, forever. There the current emperor and his court exist as though suspended in time, masters of no one, human relics of bygone splendor. After centuries of war and bloodshed, of fallen regimes and changing fortunes, the eternal antagonisms, forgotten secrets, and ancient dangers still survive….
In the imperial enclosure, the palace’s innermost private heart, a warm summer midnight enfolded the garden. Over flowerbeds and gravel paths, the foliage of maple, willow, cherry, and plum trees arched in dark, motionless canopies. The evening rain had ceased; a full moon glowed through vaporous cloud. The calm surface of the pond reflected the sky’s luminosity. On an island in the pond’s center, a rustic cottage stood amid twisted pines. Inside burned a lantern, its white globe crisscrossed by the window lattice.
West of the garden loomed the residences, ceremonial halls, offices, storehouses, and kitchens of the emperor’s household. Their tile roofs gleamed in the moon’s pallid radiance. From a passageway between two buildings, another lantern emerged. It swung from the hand of the left minister, chief official of the Imperial Court.
He strode along the pond toward a stone bridge leading to the island. Heat hazed the air like a moist veil. Fireflies twinkled feebly, as if the humidity quenched their light. A waterfall rippled; frogs croaked. The chirps of crickets and shrill of cicadas blended into a solid fabric of sound stretched across the night. The lantern cast the shadow of the left minister’s tall figure dressed in archaic imperial style—wide trousers and a cropped jacket whose long train dragged on the ground. Beneath his broad-brimmed black hat shone the sallow face of a man in middle age, with the arched brows and haughty nose inherited from ancestors who had held his post before him. As he followed a path between the trees toward his secret rendezvous, anticipation increased his pace. A smile hovered upon his mouth; he drew deep breaths of night air.
The drowsy sweetness of lilies and clover drifted heavenward over the pond’s marshy scent, masking the rich summer odors of damp earth, grass, night soil, and drains. A sense of well-being intoxicated the left minister, heady as the night’s aromatic breath. He felt as vigorous as in his youth, and extraordinarily alive. Now he could look back through years of anguish with detachment.
Fifteen years ago, an unfortunate convergence of fate and deed had condemned him to serve two masters. Birthright had placed him in a station at the heart of palace affairs, in a position to know everything worth knowing. A crime committed in passion had rendered him vulnerable to persons outside the sequestered world of the court’s five thousand residents. His two best qualities—intelligence and a gift for manipulating people—had doomed him to live in two worlds, an impotent slave in one, isolated from family, friends, and colleagues in the other. He’d been an actor playing two opposing roles. But now, having reclaimed the power to shape his own destiny, he stood ready to unite his two worlds, with himself at their summit.
Tonight would bring a taste of the rewards to come.
The light in the pavilion kindled the left minister’s eagerness. He walked faster as a surge of sexual arousal fed his new sense of omnipotence. Although uncertainty and danger lay ahead, he was buoyed by confidence that soon he would realize his highest ambitions, his deepest desires. Tonight everything was already prepared, an advance celebration of his triumph.
Along the pond, a bamboo grove rustled in the breezeless air. The left minister paused, then dismissed it as the movement of some harmless feral creature and continued on his way. But the rustling followed him. Hearing footsteps, he frowned in puzzled annoyance.
The imperial family, their lives circumscribed by tradition, rarely ventured outside so late. Desiring privacy for his rendezvous, the left minister had ordered everyone else to stay out of the garden tonight. Who dared to disobey?
Reluctantly he stopped again. The bridge lay a hundred paces ahead; across the silvery pond, the cottage lantern beckoned. The left minister peered into the dense thicket of bamboo.
“Who’s there?” he demanded. “Show yourself!”
No answer came. The moving bamboo leaves stilled. Angry now, the left minister stalked toward the intruder. “I order you to come out. Now!”
An abrupt change in atmosphere halted him ten paces short of the grove. Here the night seemed charged with energy. A soundless vibration pulsated through the left minister. The insect shrills receded to the edge of his hearing; the darkness paled within the space around him. His skin tightened, and his heart began to thud in deep, urgent beats. The will of the person in the bamboo grove seemed to close around the left minister’s mind. Inexplicable fe
ar seized him. Icy sweat broke out his face; his muscles weakened.
He knew that the person must be a member of the emperor’s family, a servant, courtier, or attendant—a mortal human. But the strange force magnified the left minister’s image of the intruder to gigantic size. He could hear it breathing monstrous gulps of air.
“Who are you?” His query came out sounding weak and timorous. “What do you want?” Somehow he understood, without word or gesture from the anonymous presence, its evil intent toward him.
The ominous breathing came faster, louder. The left minister turned and fled. On north and south, fences sealed off the garden. To the east, a stone wall separated the imperial enclosure from the estates of the court nobles. Vacant audience chambers, locked at night, cut him off from the shelter of the palace. There was no refuge except the island cottage. The left minister ran toward the lighted window, which promised companionship and safety, but his legs felt clumsy, his body weighted with the heavy malaise of nightmare. He stumbled, dropping his lantern. His stiff, cumbersome garments further hampered movement. Close behind, he heard the breathing, a vicious, predatory rasp. The ghostly grip on his mind crushed his courage.
“Help!” called the left minister, but his pursuer’s will strangled his voice. Now he was sorry he’d banned everyone from the garden. He knew he could expect no help from the cottage’s lone occupant.
As he struggled on, the eerie force enclosed him like a bubble. Desperately he zigzagged, trying to escape, but the awful pulsating sensation followed him. The weakness in his muscles increased. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw, through the force’s pale halo, the indistinct silhouette of a human figure advancing on him. His heart pounded; his lungs couldn’t draw enough air. He reached the bridge without the strength to run any farther. Falling to his knees, he crawled. The rough stone surface abraded his hands. He heard the chilling tap-tap of the intruder’s footfalls coming closer. Reaching the island, the left minister dragged himself across sandy grass. He clutched the railing of the cottage veranda and pulled himself to a standing position. The three steps to the door loomed like towering cliffs. In the window, the lantern glowed, a mocking symbol of hope denied. The left minister turned to face his pursuer.
“No,” he gasped, raising his hands in a futile attempt to ward off the undefined threat. “Please, no.”
The intruder halted a few steps away. The noisy breathing stopped. Waves of panic washed over the left minister as he cowered in the sudden awful silence. Then, in the blurred oval of its face, the intruder’s mouth opened—a darker void in darkness. Air rushed inward.
Then a scream shattered the night: a deafening wail that encompassed the full range of sound, from deepest groan to shrillest whine. The ghastly, inhuman voice blasted the left minister. Its low notes thundered through him with rumbles a million times stronger than an earthquake. The left minister’s limbs splayed as sharp cracks like gunfire shot along his bones. As he howled in pain, sinews snapped. Terror combined with wonder.
Merciful gods, what is this terrible magic?
The scream’s middle notes churned his bowels into liquid fire. The wail resonated in his heart, which beat faster and faster, swelling inside his chest. As his lungs ballooned, he breathed with harsh gasps. He fell, writhing in agony. The scream’s shrillness arced along his nerves; convulsions wracked him. In the final moment before pain devoured reason, he knew he would never make his rendezvous. Nor would his dreams ever come to pass.
Now the left minister’s insides erupted. Hot blood surged into his throat, filled his ears, choked off his breath, and blinded him. The scream’s vibrations escalated until his brain exploded in a cataclysm of white-hot light.
Then death extinguished terror, pain, and consciousness.
The scream echoed across the city, then faded. A lull in the normal night sounds followed in its wake. For an eternal moment, time hung suspended in dead quiet. Then the doors and gates of the palace slammed open; lamps lit windows. The compound came alive with the clamor of voices, of hurrying footsteps. Flaming torches, borne by guards, converged on the imperial enclosure.
A breath extinguished the flame of the lantern in the cottage. A shadowy figure crept through the garden, merging with other shadows, and disappeared.
1
From the attic of a shop in Edo’s Nihonbashi merchant district, Sano Ichir, the shogun’s ssakan-sama—Most Honorable Investigator of Events, Situations, and People—conducted a secret surveillance. He and his chief retainer, Hirata, peered through the window blinds. Below them lay Tobacco Lane, a street of tobacco shops and warehouses, restaurants and teahouses. As the summer twilight deepened, the peaked roofs turned to dark silhouettes against a rosy sky. Tobacco Lane, recently bustling with daytime commerce, was now a corridor of blank facades, its storefronts hidden behind sliding doors. Lanterns burned over gates at either end of the block. Across the city echoed the usual evening music of dogs barking, horses’ neighs, the clatter of night-soil carts, and tolling temple bells. The only sign of activity came from the Good Fortune Noodle Restaurant, a tiny establishment wedged between two shops across the street. Lamplight striped its barred window. Smoke wafted from the kitchen.
“Dinner’s long past,” Sano said, “but I smell fish cooking over there.”
Hirata nodded. “She’s definitely expecting someone.”
“Let’s just hope it’s our man,” Sano said.
Nearby, Sano’s wife, Reiko, stood amid bales of fragrant tobacco. Her pastel summer robes glowed in the faint light from the window and open skylight. Twenty-one years old, with eyes like bright black flower petals and long, lustrous hair worn in a knot, she was small and slender. Since their marriage last autumn, Sano had defied convention by permitting Reiko to help with his cases. Even though both of them knew that a proper wife should be waiting for him at home, he’d learned that Reiko could question witnesses and uncover evidence in places where a male detective couldn’t go. Now here to witness the climax of this investigation, Reiko joined Sano and Hirata at the window. She tensed, listening, her lovely, delicate oval face alert.
“I hear someone coming,” she said.
In the street below, an old man shuffled into view, leaning on a cane. The lantern at the gate illuminated his straggly white hair; a tattered kimono hung on his stooped body.
“That’s the Lion of the Kant?” Surprise lifted Reiko’s voice. The notorious crime lord ruled a band of gangsters who ran gambling dens, robbed travelers, operated illegal brothels, and extorted money from merchants throughout the Kant, the region surrounding Edo. “I expected someone more impressive.”
“The Lion travels in disguise,” Sano reminded her. “Few people know what he really looks like. That’s one way he’s managed to evade capture for so long.”
His other methods included bribing police to ignore his activities, killing his enemies, and keeping on the move. Attempts by Sano’s detective corps to infiltrate the gang had failed, and their informants had refused to talk. Hence, Reiko had used her special communication network, composed of wives, relatives, servants, and other women associated with powerful samurai clans. They collected gossip, spread news and rumors. From them Reiko learned that the Lion had a mistress—a widow who ran the Good Fortune Noodle Restaurant. During a month’s surveillance, Sano’s detectives had observed that men of different descriptions regularly visited after the restaurant closed. Guessing that these were all the Lion in various disguises, Sano had planned an ambush and taken over this shop as his headquarters.
Now he said to Reiko, “If that old man is the Lion and we catch him, we’ll have you to thank.”
Sano felt excitement and anxiety surging through him. While he yearned to end the Lion’s reign of crime, he was worried about Reiko. He wished she were safe at home, though what possible harm could come to her from merely watching through the window?
Up a curve in the road, another watcher peered out a different window, this one in a half-timbered mansion with a tile ro
of and high earthen wall. From his position in the lamplit second-floor parlor, Chamberlain Yanagisawa had a perfect view of Tobacco Lane, the Good Fortune Noodle Restaurant, and the shop where Sano and his comrades hid. Over silk robes he wore an armor tunic; a golden-horned helmet framed his handsome face. Inhaling on a long silver pipe, he savored the rise of anticipation. He turned to his chief retainer, Aisu, who squatted on the tatami floor nearby.
“Are you sure they’re in there?” Yanagisawa asked.
“Oh, yes, Honorable Chamberlain.” A slender man several years older than Yanagisawa’s own age of thirty-three, Aisu had tensely coiled grace and hooded eyes that gave him a deceptive look of perpetual drowsiness. His voice was a sibilant drawl. “I climbed on the roof and saw Sano, his wife, and Hirata through the skylight. Six detectives are in the shop below. The side window is open.” Aisu grinned. “Oh, yes, it’s the perfect setup. A brilliant plan, Honorable Chamberlain.”
“Any sign of the Lion yet?”
Aisu shook his head.
“Is everything ready?” Yanagisawa asked.
“Oh, yes.” Aisu patted the lumpy cloth sack that lay on a table beside him.
“Timing is critical,” Yanagisawa reminded him. “Have you given the men their orders?”
“Oh, yes. Everyone’s in place.”
“How fortunate that I managed to learn about Sano’s plans in time to prepare.” A smug smile curved Yanagisawa’s mouth.
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