poles and feathery foliage of bamboo border {}bordered the road. Beyond stretched lush green rice fields, reeking of night soil. Peasants drove teams of black oxen; herons waded in ditches; flocks of wild geese winged across the sky. Reiko, enclosed in the palanquin, used a silk fan to supplement the meager flow of air through the sedan chair’s open windows. She was perspiring and weary, and the hardships of the journey had dimmed the glamour of her adventure.
She now knew firsthand the difficulties experienced by women while traveling. Hot weather, crowded inns, and strange food were minor problems. To obtain Reiko’s pass, Sano had spent a day bribing petty officials. However, neither the pass nor his high rank had guaranteed an easy passage through the checkpoints where the bakufu monitored activities along the Tokaido. There inspectors had interrogated Sano about his reasons for bringing his wife. Female assistants had searched Reiko’s baggage and person for secret documents, smuggled weapons, or unusually large quantities of money. And highway laws prolonged the ordeal. Custom barred women from riding horses. To prevent the movement of troops and war supplies across Japan, the Tokugawa prohibited all wheeled traffic except for oxcarts owned by the bakufu. Hence, ladies traveled by palanquin-a slow, uncomfortable process. Reiko regretted the expense and delay she’d caused Sano.
Now she spoke through the window to him: “I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”
He gazed affectionately down at her. “You’re not. I’m glad you’re here.”
Yet he seemed distracted. He’d slept poorly during the trip, Reiko knew, even with his men standing watch. Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s assassins had gotten past guards before, and what better time to attack than when Sano was on the road, where a murder could be blamed on bandits? And before leaving Edo, Sano had identified the spy in his house, a clerk who’d confessed to telling Yanagisawa about his plan to ambush the Lion. Reiko guessed that Sano feared more sabotage in Miyako.
Behind them, Detective Marume said, “Merciful gods, this heat is awful.” Reiko liked Marume, who was powerfully built and an excellent fighter. “Oh, well, suffering is good for the spirit.” Unfailing good cheer rang out in his hearty laugh. To his partner he said, “If I were as skinny as you, Fukida-san, the weather wouldn’t bother me so much.”
Reiko peered out the back window at Detective Fukida, who had brooding eyes beneath a brow creased by a seriousness far beyond his twenty-five years. Son of a minor Tokugawa vassal, the young samurai had a poetic bent. He recited
“Though the summer day burns my skin,
I shall cool myself by evening on the Sanjo Bridge.”
His allusion to a famous landmark over the Kamo River and the nearness of their destination revived Reiko’s excitement. They would reach Miyako in less than an hour; a messenger had been dispatched to announce their arrival. When the investigation began, she would prove herself an asset to Sano instead of a hindrance.
In the near distance, the road ended at the Great Rampart, an earthen wall that surrounded Miyako, rising like a gray fortress from amid tall bamboo stalks. High rooftops and the framework structures of firewatch towers reached above the top. The Great Rampart had been built one hundred years ago, Reiko recalled, by Toyotomi Hideyoshi, who had fought under General Oda Nobunaga, risen through the ranks of Oda’s army, and succeeded to power after his lord’s death, reigning supreme over Japan. As governor of Miyako, he’d rebuilt the war-ravaged capital into the city that existed today. Now, as the procession drew closer, Reiko saw the Rashomon Gate, main portal of the Great Rampart. Its red pillars supported gable roofs with gold dolphin finials; a flight of stone steps led into Miyako. Reiko had always wanted to see the site of so many historic events. A shiver of delight rippled through her.
“How wonderful,” she murmured.
A quick smile from Sano told her he agreed.
Out the gate came a squadron of soldiers escorting two mounted samurai officials, one old, one young, wearing black ceremonial robes. This welcoming party crossed the arched stone bridge that spanned a wide moat. Sano’s procession met the Miyako contingent on an expanse of paved ground at the foot of the bridge, the two sides facing each other in parallel lines.
The banner bearers introduced Sano by calling out his name and rank. Two Miyako guard captains chorused, “The Honorable Lord Matsudaira Moronobu, deputy and cousin of His Excellency the shogun!”
The older local official exchanged bows with Sano. “Greetings,” he cried. 'Welcome to the imperial capital!”
Shoshidai Matsudaira was an older version of the shogun, Reiko observed, with the same refined features and eager, subservient smile. He said to Sano, “I have heard much about you, and I regret that I’ve not had the honor of meeting you sooner, because I seldom leave Miyako. Why, it’s been-” He turned to the official beside him. “Dear me, how long has it been since I was last in Edo?”
“A year, my lord,” said the younger man. In his early thirties, he was tall and broad-shouldered, with an angular face that tapered from a square jaw to a sharply pointed chin. A wide, full mouth and heavy eyelids gave him a sensual masculine beauty. He had the confident poise of a good sword-fighter and a competent man on his way up the bakufu hierarchy.
The shoshidai regarded him with affection. “This is Yoriki Hoshina, senior police commander of Miyako and my chief aide.”
Reiko realized that Shoshidai Matsudaira resembled the shogun in more than just appearance: He, too, had a smarter, stronger second-in-command to think and act for him.
“Please allow me to introduce Detectives Marume and Fukida from my staff,” Sano said. The two men bowed. Sano didn’t introduce the rest of his party, and while Reiko understood that he was only following custom by relegating his wife to the anonymous ranks of his entourage, she hoped this exclusion wasn’t a sign of things to come.
“Has there been any change in the status of affairs concerning Left Minister Konoe’s death since your envoy delivered the news to Edo?” Sano asked the shoshidai.
“No, I’m afraid the mystery remains.”
At least the case hadn’t resolved itself already, Reiko thought gratefully.
“Then I should appreciate Yoriki Hoshina’s assistance while investigating the matter,” Sano said, and Reiko knew he’d guessed which local official would be most able to provide the help he needed.
“Of course, of course.” Shoshidai Matsudaira bobbed his head, obviously glad that he wouldn’t have to do anything himself. “And I shall host a banquet in your honor tomorrow night.” Then, without moving, he faded into the background.
Yoriki Hoshina said, “Ordinarily, we would house an envoy from Edo in Nijo Castle.” This was the bakufu’s stronghold in Miyako. “But I regret to say that the castle is undergoing major repairs at the moment. Therefore, the best accommodation we can offer is Nijo Manor, a private inn.”
“That will be fine, thank you,” Sano said.
“Would you like to settle in and rest now?” Hoshina asked.
“I’d rather start working right away,” Sano said. “Please have your troops escort my entourage to Nijo Manor, then show me the scene of Left Minister Konoe’s death.”
To Reiko’s dismay, Sano rode briskly through the Rashomon Gate with Hoshina, Detectives Marume and Fukida, and a few guards, while she and everyone else lagged behind. She longed to accompany Sano, but she knew that for him to include his wife in his official business or pay her any attention now would seem peculiar to their hosts and undermine his authority. Cursing her uselessness, she sat trapped in her palanquin, praying that she would be able to make use of her talents later.
“Left Minister Konoe died in the Imperial Palace,” Yoriki Hoshina told Sano as they entered Miyako. “Please come this way.”
Beyond the Rashomon Gate, another moat lined the Great Rampart, with another bridge leading into the old capital. Unlike Edo, a convoluted labyrinth, Miyako was laid out on a grid based on the ancient Chinese model of city design. A wide avenue extended as far as Sano could see. The procession moved down this, passing narrower streets set at perfect right angles, some edged by canals. Despite the buildings that occupied every plot of land, Miyako’s layout gave an impression of spaciousness. This was a city of plastered wood houses, serene in its ordered uniformity. The low gray-tiled roofs peaked and fell like stylized waves. Over shop doorways hung blue curtains; bamboo blinds protected merchandise from dust, while arcades sheltered pedestrians from the weather. Rising up
