emperors; two other emperors were his nephews, and three his grandsons. He ruled supreme for thirty-two years.” Sano contemplated the last painting, a view of a temple at night. In the sky floated a huge, round moon. 'Michinaga founded this monastery at Hojo Temple. He wrote a poem boasting that he was a master of his world, ‘like the flawless full moon riding the skies.’
“That is true,” Ichijo said impatiently, “but I fail to see what relevance it has to your investigation.”
“After Michinaga’s death, the Fujiwara fortunes declined. Power shifted to the samurai class.” Sano faced Ichijo. “Don’t you regret the passing of those glorious days?”
Disdain shaded Ichijo’s face. “Even if I did, that gives me no reason for wanting Left Minister Konoe dead. The post of prime minister confers no power outside the Imperial Palace. Killing my rival would not have reestablished Fujiwara control over Japan.”
But perhaps Konoe had discovered that Ichijo was planning to restore imperial rule and Fujiwara supremacy by mounting a revolt against the Tokugawa, Sano speculated. Ichijo was in a unique position to influence Emperor Tomohito, both as chief adviser and as father of the imperial consort. If a coup succeeded, Ichijo would dominate the throne and the nation-as his ancestors had. Therefore, Ichijo was a prime candidate for instigator of the rebel conspiracy.
“Do you know Lord Ibe Masanobu?” Sano asked.
Ichijo raised his eyebrows, although Sano couldn’t tell whether he was surprised by the apparent non sequitur or if the name had significance to him. “The daimyo of Echizen Province? We have never met.”
“Have you ever been to his house in the cloth dyers’ district?”
“It is my understanding that the daimyo are forbidden to have estates in Miyako, and since I’m not acquainted with Lord Ibe, there would be no reason for me to visit him. Really, I do not see the point of these questions.”
“Have you any contact with priests at the local monasteries?”
“Of course. They perform ceremonies here at the palace.” Folding his arms, Ichijo said, “I get the impression that you are accusing me of something besides the murders. At least be specific so that I may defend myself.”
If Ichijo knew about the activities at Lord Ibe’s estate, he was doing an excellent job of pretending he didn’t. However, this veteran of court politics would have mastered the art of dissembling, and Ichijo’s clan had masterminded secret plots for centuries. But Sano wasn’t ready to make an open accusation yet.
“Even ii you aren’t acquainted with Lord Ibe, I believe your family has close ties with other daimyo clans,” he said. “The Kuroda and the Mitsu, in particular.”
“Many of us have married into those families,” Ichijo said stiffly. This was a common practice by which the samurai gained prestige via connections with the Imperial Court, while the nobles shared in the daimyo families’ wealth.
“Then you’ve had the opportunity to study the martial arts with them?”
“The opportunity, yes; the desire, no,” Ichijo said with a moue of distaste. “We in the court are glad to give the benefit of our learning to the samurai class. But with all due respect, we prefer to maintain the integrity of our culture by not absorbing yours.”
However, Sano knew that cultural influence flowed both ways. As men of the daimyo clans studied art and music with their imperial in-laws, so might nobles practice Bushido under the direction of samurai relatives. Sano perceived the strong will hidden behind Ichijo’s refined countenance, and will was the foundation for the power of kiai, the perfect weapon for a courtier who wanted a means of self-defense-or murder.
“Unless you have something else to discuss,” said Ichijo, “I really must go. My daughter needs me.”
“Just one more thing,” Sano said.
The right minister’s look of aggrieved impatience did not change, but alarm radiated from Ichijo. Sano wondered what he was hiding. He also wondered whether there was something that Yanagisawa had neglected to tell him about Ichijo.
“I need to speak with His Majesty the Emperor, Lady Jokyoden, and Prince Momozono,” Sano said. “I would prefer to see them alone, without giving them advance notice.”
“That is against court protocol, but I suppose an exception can be made.” Through Ichijo’s grudging consent, Sano saw relief. Whatever he was hiding must be serious, for him to readily grant an objectionable request just to avoid more questions. “I shall escort you to the imperial enclosure now.”
“Thank you,” Sano said.
Ichijo started toward the door. Sano lagged behind. Then he lunged forward and grabbed the right minister, locking his right arm around Ichijo’s shoulders, his left across Ichijo’s throat. For an instant, Ichijo stiffened. Sano was startled to feel tough, wiry muscles: Despite his age, Ichijo kept himself fit. Sano recalled the unearthly scream, and Aisu’s bloody corpse. What if Ichijo did indeed possess the power of kiai? At this close range, he could kill Sano by barely raising his voice. Sano knew the risk he took by provoking Ichijo, but what better way to expose the truth?
Then Ichijo went limp. He struggled feebly in Sano’s grasp, bleating, “Help, help!”
Sano let go. Relief and disappointment filled him. The door opened and two servants appeared. They hurried to the aid of their master, who sagged against the wall, coughing. Ichijo’s cheeks were red, his eyes watery. He glared at Sano.
“I know why you did that,” he said, “and I hope you are satisfied. You almost killed me.”
“If that’s the case, then I apologize,” Sano said, unconvinced. Might a man who could master kiaijutsu also be quick enough to hide his skill by feigning weakness? “I’ll see the imperial family now.”
21
The procession of fifty mounted samurai, resplendent in full armor, halted outside the walled compound of police headquarters. Chamberlain Yanagisawa swung down off his horse. “Wait here,” he told his troops.
Detective Marume said, “Why are we stopping?”
Detective Fukida said, “Shouldn’t we proceed directly to Lord Ibe’s house?”
Hanging his helmet on his saddle, Yanagisawa barely controlled his anger. His own retainers would never dare question anything he did, but Sano’s exhibited the same annoying outspokenness as their master. That Yanagisawa needed their help only worsened his bad mood. First he’d had to agree to cooperate with Sano. Now he must confront the worst humiliation of all.
“I have business here,” he told Marume and Fukida.
He strode through the gate, into the main building. There, two doshin and their civilian assistants loitered around a high platform where a clerk presided over a desk piled with ledgers. Yanagisawa stalked past the platform, through a doorway, and into a labyrinth of offices and corridors.
“Hoshina!” he shouted.
Marume and Fukida hurried after him. “Hoshina’s not here,” Marume said. “Let’s just go, please.”
“If he’s not here, then why are you so eager to stop me?” Yanagisawa kept going. 'You thought I wouldn’t find your master’s hostage, but I did.”
Yesterday, Yanagisawa had set his Miyako spies to the task of locating the yoriki. It hadn’t been easy, because Hoshina had loyal friends on the police force who’d tried to protect him. Not until late last night had Yanagisawa learned where Sano had hidden Hoshina. Now fury at Hoshina’s betrayal rose within him like hot, poisonous steam.
The betrayal was made all the more painful by Yanagisawa’s memories of the night of the shoshidai’s banquet, when he and Hoshina had spent hours in the house by the river, alternating bouts of urgent sex with talk about politics, their experiences, current events, and mutual interests in art and theater. They’d shared an intimacy that Yanagisawa had never enjoyed with anyone else. For once he had felt exuberantly alive, yet at peace.
Just before Hoshina left, they had toasted each other. “To a successful venture,” Hoshina had said.
They drank, then Yanagisawa said, “To Miyako’s best police commander, a fine comrade, and a valuable addition to my staff.”
Pleasure and consternation mingled on Hoshina’s face. Frowning down at the cup in his hands, he said, “But I’m only your comrade and a member of your staff for as long as you’re in Miyako.”
“Ah. Well.”
