silver disc hovered a dark shape. Yanagisawa released the arrow to invisible flight. A screech pierced the evening calm. Into the enclosure plummeted an owl, the arrow stuck in its breast. Its own prey-a tiny blind mole-was still gripped in the sharp talons.
Shichisaburo clapped his hands gleefully. “A perfect shot, master!”
Chamberlain Yanagisawa laughed. “By attacking one, I also claim the other.” The symbolism was as perfect as his aim, the shot an auspicious omen for his scheme. Triumph fed Yanagisawa’s desire. Dropping the bow, he extended his hand to Shichisaburo. “But enough of business. Come here.”
The young actor’s eyes faithfully mirrored Yanagisawa’s need. “Yes, master.”
The wind’s hushed breath stirred the forest; the rising moon swelled. On the silk walls of the enclosure, two shadows fused into one.
6
When Sano arrived at his residence after the long, tiring ride from Edo Jail, Hirata came out through the gate to meet him. “The shogun’s mother has agreed to speak with us before her evening prayers. The otoshiyori-chief lady palace official-will answer questions, but she has to make her night tour of inspection around the Large Interior soon.”
Sano cast a longing look at his mansion, which held the promise of food, a hot bath, and the company of his new bride. With what peaceful, feminine pursuits had she occupied the time since their wedding? Sano pictured her sewing, writing poetry, or perhaps playing the samisen- an oasis of calm amid violent death and palace intrigue. He yearned to enter that oasis, to become acquainted with Reiko at last. But night was rapidly descending upon the castle and Sano couldn’t keep Lady Keisho-in and her otoshiyori waiting, or delay informing the shogun that there would be no epidemic because Lady Harume had been murdered.
Leaving his horse with the guards, Sano said to Hirata, “We’d better hurry.”
Through stone-walled passages they ascended the hill, past patrol guards carrying flaming torches. Out of cautious habit they didn’t speak until they’d cleared the last security checkpoint and were approaching the palace, whose many-gabled tile roof gleamed in the moonlight. Torches flared against its half-timbered walls and sentries guarded the doors. The garden lay deserted under the moonlight. Here, among the gravel paths and shadowy trees, Sano told Hirata the results of Dr. Ito’s test.
“The residents and staff of the Large Interior are potential murder suspects,” Sano said. “Did your inquiries turn up anything?”
“I spoke to the guards and their commander,” Hirata said, “as well as the chief administrator of the Large Interior. The official story is that Harume’s death is a tragedy, which they all mourn. No one would say otherwise.”
“Because it’s the truth, or to protect themselves?” Sano mused. With the fact of murder established, he and Hirata could probe beyond official stories later. The women were the people closest to Harume, with the easiest access to her room and the ink jar. Sano and Hirata needed the cooperation of Lady Keisho-in and the otoshiyori before they could interview the concubines and attendants.
Gaining admission to the palace, they walked past silent, dark offices to the shogun’s private chambers. The guards stationed there told Sano, “His Excellency is not available. He left word that you should report to him first thing tomorrow.”
“Please tell him there’s no epidemic,” Sano said, so that Tokugawa Tsunayoshi need worry about illness no longer.
Then he and Hirata continued deeper into the palace’s labyrinth. As they approached the Large Interior, a high-pitched hum pervaded the quiet. When the guards opened the door to the women’s quarters, the hum exploded into a din of shrill female voices, chattering to the accompaniment of slamming doors, running footsteps, splashing water, and the rattle of crockery.
“Merciful gods,” Hirata said, covering his ears. Sano winced at the noise.
In the hours since their first visit, the Large Interior had assumed what must be its normal condition. Walking toward Lady Keisho-in’s private suite at the center, Sano and Hirata passed chambers jammed with pretty, gaudily dressed concubines eating meals off trays, preening before mirrors, or playing cards while arguing with one another and calling orders to their servants. Sano saw nude women scrubbing themselves or soaking in high wooden tubs, and blind masseurs massaging naked backs. All the women met his gaze with a curious passivity that reflected a stoic acceptance of their lot. Sano was reminded of Yoshiwara’s courtesans: the only difference seemed to be that those women existed for public pleasure, and these for only the shogun’s. When he and Hirata passed a chamber, conversation and activity ceased momentarily before resuming with undiminished noise. A gray-robed female official patrolled the corridors beside a male guard. In this feminine prison, life went on, even after the violent demise of an inmate.
Yet Sano wondered if one or more of the women knew the truth about Lady Harume’s death, and the identity of the killer. Perhaps they all did, including their mistress.
The door to Lady Keisho-in’s private chambers, located at the end of a long corridor, was like the main portal of a temple: solid cypress, rich with carved dragons. A lantern burned above; two sentries stood like guardian deities a discreet twenty paces away. As Sano and Hirata approached, the door slid open. A tall woman stepped out and bowed.
“Madam Chizuru, chief lady official of the Large Interior,” Hirata said.
He introduced Sano, who studied the otoshiyori with interest. She was in her late forties; white strands threaded the hair piled neatly atop her head. Her drab gray kimono draped a body as strong and muscular as a man’s. Madam Chizuru’s square face also had a masculine cast, emphasized by a cleft chin, thick, unshaven brows, and a shadowing of dark hairs on her upper lip. Sano knew that the otoshiyori’s most important duty was to keep a vigil outside Tokugawa Tsunayoshi’s bedchamber whenever he slept with a concubine, to ensure that no woman extorted favors during his vulnerable moments. Like the other female palace officials, she would have once been a concubine herself-probably to the previous shogun-but the only visible feminine charm was her mouth, as dainty as that of a courtesan in a woodblock print. Arms folded, she regarded Sano with a bold, level gaze that brooked no misbehavior.
“You cannot see Lady Keisho-in yet,” Madam Chizuru said. Her voice was deep, but not unpleasant. “His Excellency is with her now.”
So that was where the shogun had gone. “We’ll wait,” Sano said. “And we need to speak with you, too.”
As Madam Chizuru nodded, a pair of younger female officials arrived. An unspoken form of communication- oblique glances, nods, a twitch of lips-passed between them and their superior. In this alien territory, even the language was different. Then Madam Chizuru said to Sano and Hirata, “Urgent business demands my attention. But I shall return shortly. Wait here.”
“Yes, master,” Hirata said under his breath as the otoshiyori, flanked by her lieutenants, strode away. To Sano he said, “These women will be running the country someday if we men don’t watch out.”
The otoshiyori had left Lady Keisho-in’s door open a crack. Murmurs came from within. Curiosity overcame Sano. He stole a look. In the shadowy chamber, a ceiling lantern formed a nimbus of light around a woman seated upon silk cushions. Small and dumpy, she wore a loose, shimmering gold satin dressing gown printed with blue waves. Long black hair, untouched by gray, spilled around her shoulders, giving the sixty-four-year-old Keisho-in a strikingly youthful appearance. Sano couldn’t see her face, which was bent over the man cradled in her plump arms.
Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, Japan ’s supreme military dictator, pressed his face against his mother’s ample breasts. His black court robes swaddled his bent knees; his shaved crown, minus the customary black cap, looked as vulnerable as an infant’s. Mumbles and whimpers issued from him: “… so afraid, so unhappy… People always wanting things from me… expecting me to be strong and wise, like my ancestor, Tokugawa Ieyasu… never know what to do or say… stupid, weak, unworthy of my position…”
Lady Keisho-in petted her son’s head, emitting soothing sounds. “There, there, my dear little boy.” Her crusty voice betrayed the age that her appearance belied. “Mother is here. She’ll make everything all right.”
Tokugawa Tsunayoshi relaxed; his whimpers turned to a purr of contentment. Lady Keisho-in took up the long,
