The Ronin’s Mistress

advantages that were usually reserved for sons.

He’d hired tutors to educate her in reading, arithmetic, writing, and history, and a martial arts master to teach her sword-fighting. He’d ignored the relatives who disapproved. He’d said that his daughter was too clever to let her grow up as ignorant as other girls. When she got older, she shared his interest in the law, and spent days in a chamber behind the Court of Justice, listening to the trials he conducted. Often she would whisper advice about questions he should ask the defendants or witnesses, or offer her opinion about whether the defendant was guilty. Her father trusted her intuition; he often took her advice even though she was only twelve, or fourteen, or sixteen years old. Now Reiko mused upon the fact that her upbringing had made possible her unconventional marriage to Sano and the work they did together. She had her father to thank for everything. She adored him for his kindness and his humor. How could she bear to lose him?

Especially if she lost Sano, too?

Reiko fought back tears. Falling apart wouldn’t help her father. Neither would letting herself be overpowered by rage at whoever had injured him. She must remain calm, strong. Her father was depending on her now.

She heard a faint groan. The slits of his eyes opened wider.

Reiko’s heart leaped. “Father?”

His head slowly turned toward her. “Reiko?” He frowned in confusion. “Where am I?’”

Thank the gods he was conscious! “At home,” Reiko said.

“How did I get here?”

“A doshin brought you.”

Magistrate Ueda made a feeble move to sit up. “My guards are dead. He shot them.” Grief appeared on his face as his memory returned. Urgency snapped his eyes fully open. The whites were stained red with broken blood veins. He fumbled to throw off the quilt. “I have to catch him! Before he gets away!”

“He’s gone, Father,” Reiko said. “It happened last night.”

“Last night?” Magistrate Ueda sounded puzzled. “What time is it?”

“It’s morning. Around the hour of the snake, I think.”

Anger compressed Magistrate Ueda’s cut lips. “So he did get away.”

“Not for long.” Reiko felt the burn of her own anger at the attacker. “My husband is hunting for him. So is Hirata. They’ll catch him. Don’t worry, Father.”

He tried to push himself upright, gasping. “I have to go. I have to help.”

Reiko gently restrained him. “You can help us figure out who did this. Do you know?”

“No.” Magistrate Ueda spoke with sad regret. “It was dark. I couldn’t see his face.”

“Did you notice anything about him?”

Magistrate Ueda’s eyelids drooped. His body went limp.

“Father?” Reiko could see his consciousness ebbing.

“Two,” he whispered.

Puzzled, she said, “Were there two men who attacked you?” A moment ago he’d referred to the attacker as “he.” And Sano had stopped in to relay the doshin’s story. The doshin had said he’d chased only one man he’d seen beating Magistrate Ueda.

“No,” Magistrate Ueda said faintly. “Two tattoos. On his arm. I saw.”

Comprehension excited Reiko. “He’d been convicted of two other crimes?” Repeat offenders were branded with tattoos on their arms. The tattoos were characters for the crimes they’d committed. If they were arrested again, the police would know they’d been in trouble before. The law would impose a harsher sentence than for a first offense.

“Yes,” Magistrate Ueda whispered.

“What were his crimes?” Reiko asked eagerly. “Could you read the tattoos?”

Magistrate Ueda closed his eyes. His breathing slowed.

“Father,” Reiko said. He didn’t respond. She tried to quell the fear that she’d heard his voice for the last time. She held his limp hand. “I’ll find out who he is.” The need for revenge consumed Reiko like fire licking dry tinder. It was the same, ancient, bred-in-the-blood impulse that had set forty-seven ronin on the man they held responsible for their master’s death. She had joined their brotherhood of avengers even though she was a mere woman. “I promise.”

* * *

On his way out of the house to spend the day with the shogun, Masahiro paused in the corridor, reluctant to leave. His grandfather was hurt, and he wanted to wait for news from his mother. And despite his worry about his grandfather, he couldn’t forget Okaru. The memory of watching her bathing yesterday sent waves of excitement, pleasure, and shame through him. Then, after she’d gone to see Oishi, she’d come home crying so hard. Although Masahiro pitied her, he couldn’t help being glad that Oishi had rejected her. Masahiro had thoughts that were so wild and improbable that he didn’t dare put them into words, even in his mind.

Taeko came down the corridor, walking carefully, carrying a tray laden with a teapot, cup, and covered dishes. When she saw Masahiro, she lowered her gaze. She’d been cool toward him since he’d been mean to her yesterday. He was sorry but too proud to say so.

“Is that food for Okaru?” he said.

“Yes.” Taeko edged past him. “I told the maids I would take it to her.”

Masahiro sensed that she didn’t like Okaru. “I’ll take it,” he said.

Taeko reluctantly handed over the tray. Filled with excitement and longing, Masahiro carried the tray to Okaru’s room. Okaru was in bed, curled up beneath the quilts, only the top of her head visible. Although Masahiro wanted to see her, he thought he probably shouldn’t bother her. He tiptoed into the room and bent to set the tray on the table beside the bed.

“Who’s there?” Okaru said in a muffled voice thick with tears.

Masahiro dropped the tray on the table with a crash. “It’s-it’s me. Masahiro.”

“What do you want?” Her head emerged from beneath the quilt. Her hair was tangled. Her face was puffy from crying.

“I-I brought your breakfast.” Masahiro pointed at the tray.

She ignored the food. “What are you looking at?” she demanded.

Masahiro was dumbstruck by the anger in her red, swollen eyes, embarrassed to see her suffering.

“You must think I’m stupid and pitiful,” Okaru said, her voice shaking. “Everybody probably does. I hate you! I hate everybody! Just leave me alone!”

Her words cut Masahiro as if they were knives. He couldn’t move or speak.

“Go away!” Okaru shrilled. She sat up, grabbed the teapot, and hurled it.

Masahiro ducked. The pot hit the wall. Tea splashed. The pot and lid landed on the tatami floor in a pool of hot liquid. Okaru burst into wild, loud sobbing. Goza hurried into the room, shoved Masahiro aside, and knelt beside Okaru.

Okaru threw herself into Goza’s arms and wailed, “I’m so miserable! I want to die!”

Goza scowled at Masahiro. “You’d better go.”

* * *

Hirata rode in widening arcs away from the blacksmiths’ quarter, his senses attuned to the aura of the man who’d attacked Magistrate Ueda. But the man was too long gone; the energy emitted by other people masked the residue of his aura. It was like hunting for one star amid the cosmos. At noon Hirata found himself in the area north of the Nihonbashi Bridge, near Odenmacho-the post-horse quarter, which offered horses for hire and served as the center of the national messenger system. The government employed messengers to carry documents between cities. A messenger dispatched from Edo would run to the next stage along the highway and pass his documents on to the next man. Fast runners could cover the distance to Miyako in sixty hours. Hirata passed the horse stables and the cheap inns, teahouses, and food-stalls where the messengers waited for work. He stopped outside a barbershop.

Its narrow room, behind a dingy plank storefront, was a favorite haunt of mystic martial artists. The barber gave his customers the latest news, gleaned from the messengers, while he cut their hair. Those who lived in Edo came to drink and visit and to meet itinerant comrades who stopped by. The nature of the barbershop was known only to its select community. No one else who peeked in would realize that its few ordinary-looking patrons had enough combat skill to defeat an army. Outsiders would feel a need to leave the premises. The patrons liked their