Three days later Hirata had awakened, and learned that Lord Matsudaira had defeated Yanagisawa, Sano was the new chamberlain, and he himself was a hero. The shogun had declared that if Hirata lived, he would be promoted to Sano’s former post. Hirata had been thrilled by the honor, and amazed that he-a onetime police patrol officer-had ascended to such a high rank. But for two long months, the pain had been so bad that the doctors gave him large doses of opium, which kept him in a drowsy daze. Fever sickened and weakened Hirata. Once robust and active, he was an invalid until the New Year, when the evil spirits of disease finally left him, and he began to recover. Everyone said his cure was a miracle, but Hirata wasn’t so sure.
Now the detectives finished their reports. Hirata gave his orders: “Find out if any of the missing weapons have turned up on the market. Put a secret watch on the teahouse where the rebels have friends.”
The detectives bowed and departed. Hirata clenched his teeth against the pain. Today he would gladly trade his new post for the good health he’d once taken for granted. He was ashamed because he did little besides hear reports and give orders. Sano had done much more. Hirata knew that what he told the detectives to do, they probably could think of themselves, although they always pretended they needed his guidance. Loyal friends, they never showed that they knew he depended on them for everything; they acted as though he was in charge. They did the investigations he’d once done-because he no longer could.
Walking or riding a horse was so uncomfortable that Hirata seldom went outside the estate. A brief martial arts practice each day exhausted him. Even sitting for long taxed his energy. At age twenty-eight, he was as feeble as an old man.
His wife Midori entered the room. Young, plump, and pretty, she smiled at him, but her face had the worried look she’d worn ever since his injury. She said, “Taeko wants her papa. Can you come and see her?”
“Of course.”
Hirata rose laboriously. He leaned on his wife as they walked down the corridor. She was the only person he allowed to see his weakness. She loved him too much to think less of him. He loved her for her loyal, tender care. That his injury had brought them closer together was the only thing for which he was truly glad. He didn’t regret that he’d ruined himself to save Sano; he would again, if need be. But as much as he appreciated the honor and acclaim, he sometimes wondered if it would have been better if he hadn’t lived. Death would have gotten him all the glory and none of the suffering.
In the nursery, his daughter Taeko sat on the floor, dressed in a red kimono, surrounded by toys and attended by a nursemaid. Eleven months old, she had round, bright black eyes and downy black hair. She cooed and bounced when she saw Hirata. His spirits lifted.
“Come to Papa,” he said, kneeling down to hug her.
Taeko flung herself into his arms. She landed hard on his bad thigh. Hirata yelled in pain. He shoved Taeko off him. Confused and hurt, she began to cry. Hirata hobbled into the corridor and lay gasping on the floor. He listened while Midori and the nursemaid soothed Taeko. When she’d quieted, Midori came to him.
“Are you all right?” Midori said anxiously.
“No! I’m not all right! What kind of man can’t even hold his own child?” Hirata spoke with the frustration and self-pity that he usually tried not to show or feel: “If Taeko can hurt me so badly, then what if I should have to fight a criminal who’s much bigger and stronger? I would be cut down like a blade of grass!”
Midori knelt beside him. “Please don’t get upset,” she said. “Don’t think about fighting yet.”
Her voice quaked with fear because she’d almost lost him once and she didn’t want him in danger again. She took his hand. “You must be tired. Come to bed and take a nap. I’ll bring your sleeping potion.”
“No,” Hirata said, although he craved the opium that brought blessed relief from the pain. He resisted using the drug because it stupefied his mind, the only part of him not damaged.
“It’s only been a short time since you were injured,” Midori said. “Every day you’re getting stronger-”
“Not strong enough,” Hirata said bitterly.
“You’ll soon be able to fight as well as ever,” Midori persisted.
“Will I?” Despair filled Hirata.
Midori hung her head; she couldn’t promise that he would ever be himself again. The doctors had told them he should be satisfied just to be alive. But she said sensibly, “There’s no need for you to fight, anyway.”
Hirata exhaled. If he couldn’t fight, how could he call himself a samurai?
“The detectives can do whatever needs to be done,” Midori said, “until-”
“Until something important comes up that they can’t handle by themselves and I can’t manage from home,” Hirata said. “Then what?”
He heard someone call, “Sosakan-sama.” He sat up as Detective Arai, his chief retainer, came toward him along the passage.
“There’s a message from the chamberlain,” Arai said. “He requires your assistance on an urgent matter. He wants you to meet him at the Edo Castle racetrack immediately.”
Honor, duty, and friendship propelled Hirata to the racetrack. It wasn’t far from his estate, but by the time he arrived with two detectives and they dismounted from their horses inside the gate, his wounded leg ached even worse than usual. He looked across the compound and saw Sano at the opposite end, talking to a group of officials. Hirata drew a deep breath. His infirmity magnified the distance between him and Sano tenfold. He gathered his strength.
“Come on,” he told Detectives Arai and Inoue.
As they began the long walk, Detective Arai spoke in a quiet, offhand voice, “We could ride.”
His men always tried to make things easy for him. “No,” Hirata said.
This was one of his rare public appearances. Most of his colleagues hadn’t seen him since he’d been injured, and he had to demonstrate that he’d made a full recovery. To show any weakness would diminish his status. While he labored toward Sano, the officials scattered around the track bowed to him, and he nodded in acknowledgment. He feared that everyone could see how hard he was struggling not to limp. Sano, Marume, and Fukida hurried to meet Hirata and his detectives.
“Honorable Chamberlain,” Hirata said, trying not to gasp for breath.
“Sosakan-sama,” said Sano.
They exchanged bows; their men, once comrades in the detective corps, greeted one another. Hirata was glad to see Sano because he rarely did; perhaps a month had passed since they’d last met. Although Hirata was technically still Sano’s chief retainer, their new duties kept them apart. Now, a stiff formality had replaced the camaraderie they’d once shared. Relations between them had been awkward since Hirata’s injury.
Sano signaled their men to move off and allow them some privacy. “I hope all is well with you?” Sano said. Concern sobered his gaze as he regarded Hirata.
Perhaps the fact that Hirata had saved Sano’s life should have brought them closer together, but it had had the opposite effect. That Hirata had done only what a samurai owed his master didn’t exempt Sano from guilt because he was whole and Hirata maimed. Sano’s guilt and gratitude, and Hirata’s loss, filled a wide gulf between them.
“All is very well with me.” Hirata stood as straight as he could; he hoped Sano wouldn’t read his pain etched on his face. He didn’t want Sano to feel worse; for Sano to suffer distressed Hirata deeply. “And you?”
“Never better,” Sano said.
Hirata noticed that Sano had lost the anxious, careworn air that had marked him in his early days as chamberlain. Indeed, he looked like himself in the old days when he and Hirata had first worked together. But Hirata didn’t want to think about those days.
“What happened?” Hirata said, gesturing around the track.
“Ejima Senzaemon, chief of the metsuke, died during a race,” Sano said. “Lord Matsudaira suspects foul play and has asked me to investigate.” He described his meeting with Lord Matsudaira, and the preliminary inquiries he’d conducted.
“So far it doesn’t sound as if Ejima’s death was murder,” Hirata said, interested yet skeptical. “Can it and the earlier deaths really be part of a plot against Lord Matsudaira, or is he imagining a plot in a set of coincidences?”.
“That’s what I mean to find out,” Sano said. “I called you here because I need your help.”
Even as Hirata experienced an ardent wish to work with Sano on such an important case, he worried that it would require more strength than he had. Hirata saw Sano appraising his gaunt figure, and realized that Sano
