The Ronin’s Mistress

Sano didn’t need to point out that this wasn’t a game but a matter of life and death. “I have a feeling that everyone involved is mixing fact and fiction. We’re no closer to the truth than we were before our investigation started.”

“If anything, it’s raised a new question,” Hirata said, “which is this: Why are the forty-seven ronin telling so many different stories?”

“You’d think they’d have put their heads together, come up with one story, and made sure everyone told it,” Fukida said. “Isn’t that what criminals do when they conspire to commit a crime?”

“Often,” Sano agreed. “But if they told exactly the same story, it would sound fabricated and rehearsed. Maybe their intention was to confuse us. If so, they’ve succeeded.”

“The forty-seven ronin aren’t criminals until the supreme court determines that what they did was indeed a crime and they’re pronounced guilty,” Hirata said.

Sano heard a defensive note in Hirata’s voice. He could tell which way Hirata’s opinion was tending. He himself was tending in the same direction, but Fukida seemed to have taken the opposite view.

“It’s obvious that we don’t have the whole picture,” Sano said. “Our investigation has a long way to go. Meanwhile, the supreme court is convening. I’ll tell the judges what we’ve learned so far. It’s their job to interpret the evidence.”

Yet Sano couldn’t deny that this case had engaged him on a deeply personal level, and he couldn’t help hoping that he could influence the verdict in the direction that he believed was right. Even though he couldn’t quite make up his mind about what the right verdict was, let alone predict its repercussions for him and his family.

* * *

While he waited for his mother to return, Masahiro sat with Okaru in her room at the inn.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Okaru asked.

“A sister.” Masahiro could barely get the words out. Her nearness filled him with tingling pleasure yet made him uncomfortable.

Okaru smiled. “That’s nice. How old is she?”

“Four.” He would have to make better conversation than this, Masahiro told himself, or he would bore Okaru. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he ventured.

“I had a little brother. He died when he was eight.” Okaru spoke with matter-of-fact calmness. “And an older sister. When my parents died, she went away with a man who owned a pleasure house in Osaka. I haven’t seen her or heard from her since.”

Masahiro was disturbed by the story and the fact that he’d led her to talk about something so painful. “I’m sorry” was all he could think to say.

“That’s all right,” Okaru said. “It was years ago, so I don’t think about my family much. Whenever I do, I remember the happy times.”

She was so brave, and so nice despite the bad things that had happened to her, Masahiro thought.

The uproar of an angry mob outside interrupted their conversation. “What in heaven?” Okaru hurried to the door. She and Masahiro peered outside.

The gate was open. A doshin-a police patrol officer-and his two assistants were tussling with the crowd that tried to rush into the inn. The doshin was a thickset samurai dressed in a short, padded gray kimono, heavy leggings, and leather boots. He waved his jitte-an iron rod with a prong at the hilt for catching the blade of an attacker’s sword, standard police equipment. The assistants were burly, unshaven commoners; they did the police’s dirty work of subduing and capturing criminals and taking them to jail, Masahiro knew. They brandished their spiked clubs against the crowd.

“Oh, good! They’re chasing those awful people away!” Okaru said.

Her servant Goza barged through the crowd and in the gate. Goza carried a large hamper as if it weighed nothing. She swatted one police assistant with her arm and jabbed her elbow into the other’s eye. Her mustached face wore a look fierce enough to kill. She strode toward Okaru, who called, “Look who’s here-it’s Masahiro. He and his mother came back.”

As Goza tramped onto the veranda, the doshin yelled, “Hey, you! Stop!” He swaggered after Goza. The innkeeper closed the gate on the mob and bustled after the doshin. The two men faced Okaru, Masahiro, and Goza, who stood together in the doorway.

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave,” the innkeeper told Okaru and Goza.

Worry puckered Okaru’s brow. Goza said, “We paid for two more nights.”

“I’ll refund your money,” the innkeeper said. “I can’t have you here. The commotion is bothering my other guests. Two of them have already left.” He gestured toward the fence; beyond it, the uproar continued. “Nobody else will want to stay here with that outside.”

Goza folded her arms, planted her legs wide. “We’re not leaving.”

“I’m sorry,” the innkeeper said, genuinely contrite. “You’d better pack your things and go quietly, or I’ll have to turn you over to the law.”

The doshin advanced on Goza and Okaru. Masahiro stepped forward, drew his sword, and said, “I won’t let you throw them out.”

The doshin chuckled and kept coming. “Put that toy away before you cut yourself.”

Masahiro was furious at the doshin for mocking him in front of Okaru. He could cut the man down dead in an instant, but his father had taught him that a good samurai kills only when absolutely necessary. “My father is Sano, the shogun’s investigator,” he said. “Let them stay, or he’ll have you dismissed.”

That stopped the doshin in his tracks; he’d obviously heard of Sano, whose name still carried weight even though he’d lost standing at court. The doshin said to the innkeeper, “I guess you’re stuck with these people,” and walked away.

The innkeeper shrugged, resigned. Goza nodded in triumph. Okaru smiled at Masahiro, then sighed unhappily. “I mustn’t stay where I’m not wanted.”

“Where will you go?” Masahiro asked.

“I don’t know.” Okaru made a visible effort to boost her courage. She and Goza began packing. “But I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

Reiko returned with Chiyo. When she learned what had happened, she said, “Okaru, you and Goza must come home with me.”

Okaru gasped as if she’d just received a splendid, undreamt-of gift. “You mean, to Edo Castle?” She clapped her hands. “How wonderful!”

Chiyo moved close to Reiko. Masahiro’s keen ears overheard Chiyo whisper, “Is this wise? What will your husband think?”

“Wise or not, I can’t let that poor girl wander the streets,” Reiko whispered. “As for my husband, Okaru is a witness in his case, and he would want to keep her safe.”

Chiyo nodded reluctantly. Okaru was watching the two women, and her face fell; she understood that her welcome in Reiko’s home wasn’t certain. “Oh, but I shouldn’t impose on you. I can’t accept your kind invitation.”

“You can and you must,” Reiko said. “I insist.”

Okaru’s smile was so brilliant that it dazzled Masahiro. “A thousand thanks for your hospitality.” She bowed deeply to Reiko.

Masahiro’s heart beat fast with excitement. Okaru was going to live at his house! He would be able to see her every day!

* * *

Hirata rode with Sano, Detectives Marume and Fukida, and the troops, entering Edo proper along a road lined with food-stalls. They stopped for a quick meal. A vendor lifted the lids on pots of dumplings stuffed with shrimp, ginger, and bamboo shoots. Rich, savory steam billowed. Gulls and crows squabbled over dropped tidbits. After Hirata and his comrades had eaten, they resumed riding and came upon a group of priests walking in the same direction. The priests wore padded hemp cloaks over their saffron robes. Hoods protected their shaved heads from