“At my last lesson. During the eleventh month of this year, I believe.”
That jibed with the notes in her book. “Was there anything unusual about it?”
“Unusual, how?”
“Did she seem worried? Or upset?”
“No. But if she was worried or upset about something, she wouldn’t have told me. I was a pupil. She was the teacher.”
For a teacher to confide in a pupil went against custom. For a commoner to impose her problems on a high- ranking samurai employer did, too. “Do you know if she had any enemies?”
Ogyu shook his head. “I would assume that if she did, they were people I don’t know. We didn’t move in the same circles.”
“What about her other pupils? Did you meet them?”
“No. I took private lessons. Nobody else was there.”
Sano thought of Priest Ryuko. Ogyu certainly knew him. Sano had seen the two talking at ceremonies. Maybe Ogyu didn’t know that the priest had numbered among Usugumo’s pupils. Sano wondered what, if anything, the connection between the two men signified. But it didn’t appear that Ogyu would have met Lord Hosokawa’s daughters.
“Wait.” Ogyu raised his gloved finger, which was short and thick like his body. “There was someone else there. I just remembered. Usugumo’s apprentice. He helped her prepare for the lessons. A young man named Korin.”
This was the second time the apprentice had cropped up. Sano hoped Detective Marume would find him. He could be a good witness, if not a suspect. Right now Sano could do with either. It appeared that he wouldn’t get much of worth from Minister Ogyu-at least not as long as he maintained the pretense that Ogyu was just assisting with a future police inquiry and not under suspicion.
“Thank you for your time,” Sano said. “I’ll send some workers and funds your way as soon as they’re available.”
“Thank you. I hope the police can find out who killed Usugumo. She was a fine woman who didn’t deserve to die.” Again, Ogyu spoke with sincerity.
Sano wondered if those opaque eyes saw straight through him. Leaving the courtyard, he glanced at Lady Ogyu’s tent. She must have overheard his whole conversation with Minister Ogyu. Did her interest in it extend beyond a wife’s nosiness about her husband’s affairs? Although tempted to question her, Sano didn’t want to risk seeming too eager for information and causing the wrong people-namely Ienobu and the shogun-to get wind of it and ask why. Sano would have to wait to satisfy his curiosity until after Reiko talked with Lady Ogyu.
17
When Hirata left Sano’s estate, he knew he should begin questioning people who were associated with Priest Ryuko and Minister Ogyu, eliciting information that would indicate whether one of them was the murderer. He knew that with so many people displaced, it would take a while to locate witnesses, and he would lose time tracing people who turned out to have died in the earthquake. But he couldn’t get out of the ritual. If he reneged on his promise, Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi would force him to participate. Recalling the moment they’d levitated the house out of the ground, he feared them more than ever, and he needed to arm himself with knowledge before he saw them again.
Hirata rode through the falling snow along desolate, rubble-strewn streets to the huge camp in Nihonbashi. He paused on its edge, gazing at the tents, concentrating on the auras given off by the people. They conveyed so much pain, fear, and grief that he wanted to suppress his perception, but he was looking for someone, and this was the quickest method.
He visited three other camps before he found the men at one near the Sumida River. In the twilight, bonfires colored the falling snowflakes orange. The men had pitched their tent at the edge of the camp. Their tent was made of two lattice partitions leaned together and covered with tatami mats. Blankets hung over its ends. Smoke tendrils rose from an opening on top. It radiated a powerful, calm aura spangled with cheer, which was familiar to Hirata. He also perceived another aura he’d never encountered before, equally powerful, humorous. Hirata cautiously approached.
“Greetings, Hirata- san,” called a male voice from within.
There was no use sneaking up on his fellow mystic martial artists. Hirata lifted the blanket. Warmth heated his face. He smelled the sour tang of pickled cabbage and radish and the reek of salted fish. “Hello, Iseki- san.”
An oil lamp illuminated two kneeling men. One held a bowl and chopsticks. The other lifted a teapot off a brazier. He was in his seventies, his face wrinkled like crumpled paper. He had only one arm.
“Join us,” he said
Hirata squeezed himself into the tent’s small space, amid various cloth-wrapped bundles. He accepted a bowl of tea that Iseki deftly poured with his single hand. “I’m glad to see you’re alive. I went to your barbershop, but it was in ruins.”
The barbershop had been a favorite haunt of mystic martial artists, located north of the Nihonbashi Bridge near the center of the national messenger system, from which the government dispatched runners to carry documents between cities. Iseki the barber had gleaned the latest news from the messengers and given it to his customers. The earthquake had halted the messenger system, which had only just resumed with limited service, and the mystic martial artists had lost their gathering place.
Iseki grinned and raised his tea bowl to Hirata. “I’m tough. An earthquake wrecked my barbershop. An earthquake crushed my arm and ended my fighting days. Neither of them managed to kill me, though.”
“Are you going to introduce me to your friend?” Hirata asked.
“Oh, pardon my bad manners. This is Onodera.”
Hirata exchanged polite bows and greetings with the man, who was in his forties but fit and muscular. Onodera wore a round black skullcap, a thigh-length kimono and loose breeches printed with arcane symbols, cloth leggings, and straw sandals. A short sword hung from the sash around his waist. Beside him was a wooden chest, its shoulder harness decorated with orange bobbles. Costume and equipment marked him as a yamabushi — an itinerant priest from a sect that blended Buddhism, Shinto religion, and Chinese magic.
“I’ve heard of you,” he told Hirata. He had a round face with eyes that disappeared into slits as he smiled. “The best fighter in Edo.”
Modestly declining the praise, Hirata knew who the best fighters in Edo really were, although he’d yet to see them strike a single blow. “I’ve heard of you, too. You protect villages from bandit gangs.”
“None other,” Onodera said cheerfully.
“What brings you here?”
“I was passing through Edo when the earthquake hit,” Onodera said. “I figured I would stay and see if I could help.”
“Well, I’m glad to find you and Iseki- san,” Hirata said, “because I need your help.” He spoke reluctantly because it felt weak and shameful. But he didn’t know what else to do.
“Who do you want me to fight?” Onodera put down his bowl, ready to dash into battle.
“No one.” At least not yet. “It’s information I need.”
“Information about what?”
Hirata hesitated, recalling his oath of silence to the secret society. But asking about the other members didn’t equal telling on them. “Three mystic martial artists. Their names are Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi.”
Onodera’s eyes opened up as the smile left his face.
“You asked me about them, when was it, last year?” Iseki said. “Didn’t I tell you to stay away from them?”
“I should have listened,” Hirata said.
Iseki frowned, refilling Hirata’s tea bowl, adding a splash from a jar of sake.
Hirata drank. The tea was spicy and robust, the liquor eye-wateringly potent. “Do you know them?” he asked
