He was in love with Hoshina. Love was the cause of the yearning he’d felt for the yoriki, the source and substance of the comradeship that had grown between them. He should have known. And he should have known better.
“If you’ll give me another chance, I’ll make it up to you,” Hoshina said. “I’ll help you solve the murder case, devote my life to your service-anything you want. I’ll prove that I’m innocent of any crimes. Just please…” Emotion cracked his voice. “Have mercy.”
Yanagisawa turned his back on Hoshina. Even if the yoriki wasn’t guilty of murder or treason, he deserved to die. He must die so that Yanagisawa could thwart Sano’s blackmail. And Yanagisawa would never again make the mistake of falling in love.
“You’ll be executed tomorrow morning,” he said.
The battering ram struck the gate of Lord Ibe’s house with a thunderous crash, splintering wood and breaking hinges. Soldiers rushed through the portals. More troops climbed the fences around the house and swarmed the property. Brandishing swords and spears, they shouted, “In the name of the shogun, come out and surrender!”
Chamberlain Yanagisawa charged into the front yard after his men. He welcomed action that would take his mind off the pain of Hoshina’s betrayal. He wanted to forget that he still loved Hoshina and mourned the yoriki’s impending death, even though he’d ordered it himself. He must avert the possible threat to the regime, and the capture of the outlaws represented a new chance to solve the murders.
The troops were inside the house now. As Yanagisawa entered, they stormed the corridor and rooms. Above him pounded the footsteps of the men who’d invaded the second story. Shouts echoed in the dim, musty space. Yanagisawa gripped his sword. His desire to be a great detective persisted; he discovered in himself a need to prove he was capable of more than just sabotaging Sano. The thrill of the raid stirred the place deep inside him where his samurai spirit lay dormant. With a strange, heady anticipation, Yanagisawa hungered for battle.
Then Detective Marume came running from the back of the house. “Nobody in here, Honorable Chamberlain,” he said.
Detective Fukida clattered down the stairs. “’Second floor’s empty, too. They’ve all cleared out.”
Yanagisawa’s spirits plunged. “What about the weapons?”
Fukida shook his head. Marume said, “We didn’t find any.”
The soldiers gathered in the corridor, sheathing their swords. Yanagisawa cursed, using temper to hide the despair that filled him as his suspicions about Hoshina grew. Had the yoriki somehow managed to send orders for the outlaws to move the arsenal after Sano imprisoned him? Yanagisawa didn’t wish to acknowledge the worst sins of his lover, or admit defeat. He wanted to torture Hoshina into revealing the outlaws’ whereabouts; he wanted to vent his fury while slaking his desire.
“Search the place again,” he said. “Look for anything that might tell us where the outlaws are or what they’re planning.”
While the men obeyed, Yanagisawa inspected the storerooms. They were empty, although the air still reeked of gunpowder. A single round bullet lay under the window. Yanagisawa picked up the bullet and cupped it despondently in his palm. His mood grew bleaker when the troops came to report an unsuccessful search.
“Ask the neighbors if they know where the occupants went,” Yanagisawa said. “If not, I want the city and surrounding areas searched for the arsenal. The outlaws may have gone to join their confederates. Find them before we have a war on our hands.”
He lingered in the empty arsenal. Tracing the outlaws would probably require a long, tedious search that would keep him in Miyako for ages. Yanagisawa hated the thought of reporting the bad news to his bakufu subordinates, who would spread the tale of his unsuccessful raid, setting him up to take the blame if a revolt did materialize. He dreaded spending the night alone at Nijo Castle, knowing that Hoshina would soon be dead. Crouching on the floor, he laid his head on his knees and succumbed to misery.
22
An incongruous sight greeted Sano and Right Minister Ichijo at the emperor’s residence. Two armies of banner bearers, archers, gunners, spearmen, and mounted swordsmen faced off across the courtyard. The troops wore armor in the style of four centuries before, featuring huge arm flaps, long tunics, and intricate lacing. Sunlight glinted off polished helmets; a war drum boomed across a battle scene straight out of history.
Then, as Sano drew nearer, the illusion dissolved. The weapons were wooden; the horses were painted papier-mache heads mounted on sticks. None of the soldiers was more than sixteen years old. Most wore only bits of tattered armor, as though the imperial treasure-house hadn’t supplied enough equipment for everyone. These were young courtiers at play, not samurai at war. Waiting for a signal to begin fighting, they giggled and pushed one another.
Suddenly a loud whoop rang out. At the rear of one army, Emperor Tomohito, clad in a complete, splendid suit of armor, raised a war fan bearing the gold imperial chrysanthemum crest. Straddling his toy horse, he ran up the side of the battlefield. So much for the rule forbidding the emperor’s feet to touch the ground, Sano thought.
“His Majesty enjoys war games,” Ichijo said, then bowed and departed.
The archers let blunt-tipped arrows fly. Gunners aimed toy arquebuses, shouting, “Bang! Bang!” Wooden swords and spears made a racket as foot soldiers and horsemen clashed. Some boys on the emperor’s side wore the insignia of northern and western samurai clans; others sported the white cowls of warrior priests. The other side wore armor with the red lacing associated with the Minamoto regime that had once ruled Japan. Recognizing the battle, Sano wondered why Emperor Tomohito had chosen to re-enact it.
Then he heard hoots coming from the sidelines. Near a collection of spare weapons stood Prince Momozono. He wore a plain cotton kimono and a helmet much too big for him. His arms and head jerked.
Approaching, Sano greeted the prince.
Momozono’s hoots turned to squeals of alarm. As he lurched around to face Sano, his leg buckled, and he fell. Fear glazed his rolling eyes as he struggled to rise.
“I’m sorry I startled you,” Sano said, again feeling instinctive disgust. He warned himself that the prince was still a suspect, and one he hadn’t had a chance to investigate thoroughly. He couldn’t assume that Momozono was harmless. Hiding his distaste, Sano reached out to the fallen prince. “Let me help you up.”
“N-no, thank you, that’s all right.” Hoot, puff, gasp. Twitching all over, Momozono somehow managed to stand.
Pity moved Sano. He spoke gently, as if to a child: “Well, this is certainly an exciting battle. Are you the captain of the arsenal?”
“I’m not much good at anything, but H-his Majesty is kind enough to give me a p-part in his games.”
More noises accompanied Momozono’s answer, but Sano couldn’t mistake the emphasis on the last word. Momozono was no childlike cripple, but a mature man who understood the difference between make-believe and the terrible reality of his own existence.
“You’re fond of the emperor, then?” Sano asked, watching Tomohito gallop across the battlefield.
“Yes.” Momozono made barking sounds, like a dog.
“I understand that His Majesty treated you kindly and gave you a place at court when no one else wanted you around.”
“He did m-more than that.” Momozono gripped his arms, forcing them to hold still. “If not for him, I would be dead.” Unpleasant memory clouded his straining face.
“Tell me what happened,” Sano said.
Prince Momozono hesitated: He obviously knew the danger a murder suspect courted by confiding in the shogun’s sosakan. Yet Sano sensed in him an impulse that opposed caution. How often did anyone bother talking to him? How much he must yearn for communication! Finally, Momozono spoke.
“W-when I was young, I lived in the imperial children’s palace with the other p-princes and princesses. Then, in the s-spring when I was eight, my affliction started. I w-was scolded and beaten, but I couldn’t control myself. The d-doctors couldn’t discover what was wrong with me. They forced m-medicines down my throat and gave me purges and enemas.” Through the grunts that punctuated the words echoed the anguish of a child who didn’t
