him regarding Left Minister Konoe’s murder.
Was Sano unaware of his relationship with Konoe? Ichijo had no doubt the metsuke records described it in detail, and couldn’t believe that Sano hadn’t targeted him as a suspect. Sano had learned that Emperor Tomohito, Prince Momozono, Lady Jokyoden, and Lady Asagao had been away from their quarters, their whereabouts unknown, at the time of the murder; why didn’t he also know that the same incriminating circumstance applied to Ichijo?
Still, Sano’s ignorance was a stroke of good fortune, because Ichijo knew that if Sano found out about him and accused him of murder, he would be convicted; virtually all trials ended in a guilty verdict. Ichijo envisioned his distinguished career ending at the public execution ground, amid uproarious scandal. All morning he’d hovered around Sano, listening to the interviews in constant fear that someone would tell Sano what many in the court knew and might reveal if asked the right questions. Although Sano didn’t need his services at present, Ichijo was too anxious to keep track of the investigation to force himself to leave.
Yet he realized that his behavior might provoke Sano’s suspicion. Now he forced himself to walk away, out the gate, and down the passage through the kuge district toward his residence.
Suddenly, a Tokugawa soldier stepped from around a corner. Solid and grim-laced, he blocked Ichijo’s path. “Honorable Right Minister, please come with me,” he said.
“Where?” Ichijo said, startled. “Why?”
The soldier merely repeated, “Come with me,” in a tone that discouraged refusal.
Alarm seized Ichijo. Every instinct warned him not to go, but disobeying a bakufu order would bring harsh punishment. Longing for the days when his ancestors ruled Japan and the power of the Imperial Court was supreme, Ichijo let the soldier escort him out the northern palace gate.
In the street outside waited more soldiers, and a black palanquin manned by four bearers. “Sit inside,” the soldier ordered Ichijo.
Ichijo reluctantly complied. When the soldier closed the slatted blinds over the windows of the sedan chair and barred the doors shut, Ichijo’s alarm turned to fear. “What’s going on?” he called. “Am I under arrest?”
No answer came. The palanquin rose as the bearers shouldered the poles, then began moving at a brisk pace. Ichijo didn’t dare try to break out or call for help. He desperately sought a reason for his abduction. Perhaps the bakufu did suspect him of killing Left Minister Konoe; perhaps he was on his way to trial. But if so, then why this secretive capture? The Tokugawa usually made a spectacle of criminals as a warning to the public, and Sosakan Sano, officially in charge of the murder investigation, didn’t appear to be involved in this. Fighting panic, Ichijo tried to determine where his captors were taking him.
He heard the noise of the crowds on Imadegawa Avenue. Then the palanquin turned right, heading north. Familiar smells of fish and lacquer emanated from some shops, and the noise of saws on wood from others; gongs rang in a shrine. Ichijo deduced that he was traveling along Karasuma Avenue. The motion nauseated him; nervous sweat drenched his body. Soon the traffic noises diminished. The palanquin tilted upward at a gradually increasing angle as it wound into the hills. Birds sang above the bearers’ labored breaths and the steady tramp of their feet. Inside the dim, hot compartment, every breath Ichijo drew reeked of his own terror.
Abruptly, the ground leveled. Ichijo heard the creak of a gate swinging on rusty hinges. The bearers set down the palanquin. The door opened, but before Ichijo could glimpse his surroundings, a soldier leaned in and dropped a black cloth sack over his head. Strong hands dragged him from the palanquin.
Gasping in the smothering darkness, Ichijo tried to pull off the sack and struggle free, but the soldiers pinned his arms behind him and marched him across grassy earth. He felt wind whipping his garments, and the heat of sunlight. Then a door slid open. The wind and heat abated as the atmosphere around him condensed into the vacuum of an interior space. The soldiers kicked off his shoes; his feet stumbled along a wooden floor. Ichijo wanted to protest, but in his terror, he feared he would vomit if he tried to speak.
The floor beneath his feet changed to firm, cushioned tatami. The soldiers pushed him down on his knees and let go of him. Their footsteps retreated; a door closed. Ichijo sensed a human presence in the room with him. His panic mounted. He couldn’t breathe. Desperately, he tore the sack off his head.
Bright light blinded him. As his vision focused, he saw that he was in a bare, spacious room. Sliding walls stood open to a vista of blue-white sky and hazy green hills bathed with sunshine. Murals depicting similar scenery gave the illusion that the room was an extension of the landscape outside. Then a man moved into Ichijo’s view. He was a tall, slender samurai, clad in dark silk robes, swords at his waist. He stood proudly erect; his face had a striking, sinister beauty.
“Who are you?” Ichijo demanded, grasping at a semblance of his usual authority.
The samurai smiled; his intense gaze scrutinized Ichijo. “My apologies for any discomfort or inconvenience you’ve suffered. Be assured that I wouldn’t have employed such an unusual method of conveying you here unless it was absolutely necessary. I am Chamberlain Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu.”
Now Ichijo noticed the gold Tokugawa crests on the man’s surcoat.
“The shogun’s second-in-command?” he asked in bewilderment. Fresh terror followed. The chamberlain was the most powerful man in Japan, with a reputation for cruelty. This secretive encounter-in a mysterious location and where no one knew Ichijo had gone-held the possibility for evil beyond imagination. “But… I did not know you were in Miyako.”
“Very few people do know,” the chamberlain said, “and for now, I intend to keep it that way.”
“Why?” When important bakufu officials came to town, they invariably did so with great fanfare.
“My reasons are none of your concern.”
The chamberlain’s suave arrogance outraged Ichijo. After he’d been coerced out of the palace, carted away like a piece of baggage, and frightened almost to death, his pride rebelled against further disrespect. Anger gave him daring.
Rising, he said haughtily, “Whatever business you have with me, I prefer to discuss it in my office, under civilized conditions. Therefore, I shall go now.”
He turned and started toward the door, but the chamberlain’s quiet voice halted him: “I wouldn’t advise that. The soldiers who brought you are waiting outside. They’ll use force to stop you. You’ll suffer much pain and accomplish nothing. So you’d best resign yourself to staying awhile.”
Defeated, Ichijo faced his adversary’s scornful smile. “What do you want from me?” he said, hating his impotence, hating the whole Tokugawa regime.
“Information,” the chamberlain said. He paced a swift circle around Ichijo; his steps wove an invisible snare. “Information regarding the murder of Left Minister Konoe.”
With keen interest, Chamberlain Yanagisawa studied his prisoner. Right Minister Ichijo’s face was red and sweaty, his gray hair disordered, and his garments wrinkled, but his stance was confident; his noble breeding gave him an unshakable dignity, despite the terror that Yanagisawa’s sharp instincts detected in him. Admiration and misgivings stirred in Yanagisawa. Here was an opponent whose defeat would bring him great satisfaction, but he couldn’t expect an easy victory. Nor did he know exactly what he would do with whatever information he got from Ichijo.
“Tell me about your relationship with Konoe,” he said.
Ichijo’s features assumed an impassive expression that didn’t quite mask how much he longed to avoid the subject of his dead colleague. He said, “That seems more a matter of concern to Sosakan Sano, who is investigating Konoe’s affairs, than to yourself. Why are you treating me this way?”
“Let’s just say that I have a personal interest in the case.” Yanagisawa recognized a ploy to divert the conversation away from the left minister. He’d thought himself the master of verbal warfare, but Ichijo equaled him. The knowledge rankled, and he found satisfaction in remembering the decline of Ichijo’s clan, the Fujiwara.
They’d once controlled huge areas of land by giving protection to the owners in exchange for revenues and loyalty, but as decades passed, they’d squandered their energy on frivolous amusements. Their hold on the provinces relaxed. Revolts broke out in the countryside. The Fujiwara were forced to rely upon the Taira and Minamoto warrior clans to maintain order. Eventually those clans clashed during the Gempei Wars two centuries ago. The Minamoto won the right to rule in the name of the emperor, marking the end of the Fujiwara era and the triumph of the samurai. Right Minister Ichijo and his kind were artifacts of a dead regime.
“Does Sosakan Sano know you’re doing this?” Ichijo asked.
His impertinence vexed Yanagisawa. “You’re here to answer questions, not ask them,” he said. “Stop stalling.
