The watchdogs remained seated, nervous yet steadfast. Sano rushed toward the door, then stopped as two soldiers walked into the room. Masahiro toddled between them, his little hands clasped in their large, armor-gloved ones. He smiled as though delighted to have two new friends. They grinned as if they’d just captured a valuable prize. Horror stabbed Sano.
“Let go of my son!” he shouted.
The soldiers held tight to Masahiro, whose face puckered in confusion at his father’s outburst. Ibe addressed the soldiers: “Where is Lady Reiko?”
“We couldn’t find her,” replied a soldier.
“Never mind,” Otani said. “The boy will serve our purpose well enough.”
Incensed, Sano grabbed Otani by the front of his surcoat. “Tell me what’s going on!”
Otani wrenched Sano’s hands off him and stood. “Our men will keep your son company during the investigation.”
“Which ought to ensure that you do as we say,” Ibe added as he rose.
“You’re holding my son hostage.” Disbelief filled Sano even as he couldn’t deny the obvious truth.
“Yes, if you must put it so bluntly,” Ibe said.
“Papa?” Masahiro said.
His plaintive voice trembled with fright because he sensed that something was amiss even if he didn’t understand what. Sano’s horror escalated because he must choose between justice and his son’s safety. For once he was glad that Reiko was gone. Perhaps she was safer in Senior Elder Makino’s estate than here.
Hirata rushed into the room, followed by a horde of detectives, shouting, “Release my master’s son!”
He and the detectives drew their swords. So did Ibe and Otani. Their troops crowded through the door, brandishing their weapons. The room went silent except for the sound of rapid, harsh breathing; antagonism permeated the air. Masahiro stared, wide-eyed, at everyone. His throat contracted as he bravely tried not to cry. Sano stood paralyzed, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Otani and Ibe faced him down. Sano realized that they were serious enough in their wish to subjugate him that they would risk a fight. He also realized that unless he wanted combat in his house-and Masahiro accidentally wounded or killed-he must submit.
“Everybody, put away your weapons,” he said, dropping his hand from his own sword.
Metal rasped as blades slid into scabbards. Sano felt the tension in the air slacken but not dissipate, like a rope stretched between two men who have relaxed their grip without letting go. Triumph marked the faces of the aggressors. Sano saw his own defeat and humiliation reflected in his men’s eyes. He also saw that while the scope of the investigation had widened to include two murders, his watchdogs had seriously impaired his ability to solve either.
“A wise decision, Sosakan-sama,” said Otani. “We really wouldn’t like to harm you. And you don’t want to find out what will happen to your son should you resist us.”
“Are you really going to follow Otani and Ibe’s orders?” Hirata asked, incredulous because he’d never seen Sano back down for anyone. Yet he knew from experience that a man can be driven beyond the bounds of honor by the need to protect his kin.
“As long as they’re holding my son hostage, what else can I do?” Sano said with bitter resignation.
Hirata and Sano stood in the stable, where Sano had gone to fetch his horse while Otani and Ibe waited for him outside the gate. Sano had covertly signaled Hirata to follow him. After a short delay, Hirata had slipped past the troops now occupying the estate and joined Sano. Horses snorted and munched feed; stableboys shoveled manure out of the stalls, while a groom saddled a mount for Sano.
“Now I can better understand what you did at the Dragon King’s island,” Sano said.
Hirata derived no satisfaction from seeing his master put in the same position that had led himself to ruin. He didn’t want Sano forced to compromise himself. He counted on Sano to uphold the honor of the samurai class.
“My hands are tied.” But even as Sano admitted defeat, cunning inspiration gleamed in his eyes. “But yours aren’t.”
Hirata felt a sudden resurgence of the hope that he’d thought impossible.
“You’re officially banned from the investigation,” Sano continued. “No one is watching you. You can go places and talk to people that I can’t. I need you to reinvestigate Koheiji and Tamura in the light of what we’ve learned about them. I need to know if they have any connection to Daiemon’s murder. But I can’t do it with Otani and Ibe shadowing me and ready to harm my son if I step out of line. Therefore, I’m ordering you to act on my behalf.”
Joy exhilarated Hirata. Here was a new chance to solve the case and atone for past mistakes. The murder of Daiemon had begotten good fortune as well as bad. Hirata stifled an urge to cheer. Bowing solemnly, he said, “I’ll do my best.”
“Keep your inquiries as discreet as possible,” Sano warned. “Don’t let Otani or Ibe get wise to you.”
“Yes, Sosakan-sama.” Hirata understood the responsibility that came with his new chance. Now it wasn’t just his life or reputation at risk, but the welfare of his master’s child. “But what if I discover evidence against Tamura or Koheiji-or someone in the factions? That would displease Otani and Ibe.”
“Let’s just solve the crimes and hope that everything somehow turns out all right.”
Hirata saw that Sano didn’t feel much optimism. Neither did Hirata. But he had his new chance. He swore to himself that he wouldn’t blow it.
Business in the theater district was well under way by the time Hirata arrived. Clad in plain garments that obscured his rank and a wide wicker hat that hid his face, he rode down Saru-waka-cho. Drummers in the wooden framework towers called theatergoers to the plays. People laden with quilts to keep them warm filed into the buildings. Gay music and fluttering banners spangled the cold, gray morning. Vendors did a brisk trade in hot tea and roasted chestnuts. But Hirata observed that the crowds seemed thinner than usual, minus the samurai who’d been mobilized for the coming battle between Chamberlain Yanagisawa and Lord Matsudaira. Distant war drums pulsed in counter-rhythm to the drums in the towers. A dangerous energy in the air heightened the urgency of Hirata’s own mission. He dismounted outside the Nakamura-za Theater, secured his horse, bought a ticket, and entered through the door beneath a huge poster of Koheiji.
Inside, the theater was sparsely peopled, the stage empty except for musicians tuning their instruments: The play was late in starting. So much the better, Hirata thought-he could snare Koheiji now instead of waiting out the play. The actor still didn’t strike Hirata as the best suspect, but Sano wanted him reinvestigated, and Hirata and Koheiji had things to settle.
Hirata climbed onto the runway that extended from the stage, between rows of seating compartments, to a curtained door at the side of the room. He pushed through the curtain into a corridor, past actors lining up to go onstage. Walking down the corridor, Hirata peered into rooms where more actors fussed while attendants adjusted their costumes and makeup. Gaudy courtesans and strutting samurai abounded among the cast. Hirata came to the last door along the passage. A man’s breathy grunts and a woman’s moans issued from inside the room. Hirata lifted the curtain that screened the door.
Costumes on wooden stands, a dressing table and mirror, and theatrical props jammed the small space. On a futon in the corner, Koheiji lay, his kimono hiked above his bare buttocks, his trousers fallen around his knees, atop a woman who sprawled nude in a tangle of her long hair and brightly colored robes. He panted while thrusting into her; she bit on a cloth to stifle her moans. Hirata cleared his throat. The lovers’ heads turned toward him, and the lust on their faces turned to dismay. The woman squealed.
“Who are you?” Koheiji demanded, springing to his feet and glaring at Hirata through a mask of white face powder, painted black eyebrows, and rouged cheeks and lips. “How dare you barge in here?”
The woman scrambled into her robes, then ran out the door. Hirata tilted back his hat. “You remember me,” he said. “I’m here for a little talk with you.”
The actor’s face showed alarm as he recognized Hirata. He seemed to decide against arguing with the chief retainer of the shogun’s sosakan-sama. Nodding sullenly, he straightened his clothes. “All right, but please be quick.” He looked in the mirror, checking his makeup, then hung two wooden swords at his waist. “I have to go onstage in a few moments.” Sudden anxiety colored his expression as he faced Hirata. “Hey-I hope you won’t tell anyone what you just saw?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Hirata said.
“She’s the wife of the theater owner,” Koheiji said. “If he found out about us, he would fire me.”
