The Ronin’s Mistress

“Go ahead,” Yanagisawa said with a tantalizing smile. “Prove that you’re a real samurai.”

Even as Sano felt the impulse to kill rise like a monster inside him, Yanagisawa, the room, and the other men in it faded from his vision. He was walking down the Corridor of Pines. Kajikawa, the keeper of the castle, appeared and spoke words that Sano didn’t hear. A door opened along the corridor between them. Out stepped Kira. Sano charged at Kira, drew his sword, gripped it in both hands, and swung.

Everything went black.

Then Sano was back in the office with Yanagisawa and the elders, who were eagerly waiting to see what he would do. Sano stood thunderstruck by his vision in which he’d been Lord Asano. The shock restored his wits. He realized that Yanagisawa was goading him into emulating Lord Asano. If he took the bait, he would be sentenced to death.

He would be one obstacle cleared from Yanagisawa’s path toward taking over Japan.

Reason dashed cold water onto the firestorm of rage. Sano let his hand drop from his sword. The elders’ faces sagged with disappointment and relief. Yanagisawa smirked; he opened his mouth to make another cutting remark.

Sano hauled back his fist and punched Yanagisawa on the nose. Yanagisawa yelped as the blow slammed his head backward. He lost his balance, fell, and lay on the floor. Blood gushed from his nostrils. He and everyone else regarded Sano with complete, stupid astonishment.

“You think you have so much foresight, but you didn’t see that coming, did you?” Sano’s fury gave way to humor.

Yanagisawa began to sputter.

“How dare I?” Sano mocked. “Oh, I dare. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find out who’s behind the attack on Magistrate Ueda. If it’s you, I won’t let you off with a bloody nose.” Sano strolled out of the room.

27

Reiko left her father in the doctor’s care and went to the part of the mansion that housed the Court of Justice. Today it was empty; all court business had been postponed. Ikeda, the magistrate’s chief retainer, stood at the open door, facing out toward the courtyard which was usually crowded with police officers guarding criminals scheduled for trial. Today it contained only two men, who had the fashionable, well-fed look of prosperous merchants.

“The magistrate won’t be hearing any disputes for a while,” Ikeda told them.

“Why not?” asked one of the merchants.

“Because he’s on the supreme court for the forty-seven ronin case. And because he was seriously injured last night.”

“Well, I’m sorry he’s hurt,” the other merchant said, “but it’s not fair that everything should grind to a halt because of those criminals.”

“They’re not criminals, they’re heroes,” the first merchant said angrily. “They avenged their master’s death.”

“Go ask the other magistrate to settle your dispute.” Ikeda closed the door, turned, and saw Reiko. “How is your father?”

“He regained consciousness long enough to tell me something about the man who beat him.” Reiko described the tattoos on the man’s arm.

“Maybe he’s someone that your father convicted,” Ikeda said. “Maybe he had a grudge.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. I want to search the court records for names of repeat offenders. Will you help me?”

“Certainly.” Ikeda accompanied Reiko to the magistrate’s office.

The office was dear to Reiko. When very young, she’d played with her toys and kept her father company while he worked. When she was older, she’d helped him copy his notes into the official records that filled ledgers and scrolls in fireproof iron trunks stacked to the ceiling. The unoccupied desk brought tears to Reiko’s eyes. She and Ikeda lifted down trunks and began sorting through the records. It was no quick task; her father had been magistrate for almost three decades, and he conducted hundreds of trials every year.

“I wish there were a faster way to weed out cases that involve defendants who obviously didn’t attack my father, like these female thieves and prostitutes,” Reiko said, as she and Ikeda skimmed pages of court proceedings.

“Your father’s clerks did make a note when a defendant had been previously convicted,” Ikeda said. “Here’s one-but this trial was for his third offense. That’s too many.”

After two hours, Reiko had made a list of the names of twelve male criminals who each had two convictions and were young enough and presumably able-bodied enough to have managed the attack on Magistrate Ueda. She’d also written down their places of residence.

“What are the chances that they’re still living there?” she said.

“Not very good,” Ikeda said. “Perpetual criminals move around a lot. And some of these may not be living at all. Their kind tends to die early.”

“At least we have some possible suspects.” Reiko tucked the list under her sash. “I’ll give this to my husband. Maybe it will help him catch the assassin.”

* * *

Hirata returned to Edo Castle at dusk. He’d spent the afternoon hunting for Tahara, Deguchi the priest, and the soldier named Kitano Shigemasa. His sources had told him that Tahara had a house in the Kanda district. Hirata had gone there and spoken to a servant, who’d said that Tahara was out. Next, Hirata had ridden to Ueno Temple. Deguchi wasn’t there; he was ostensibly begging alms in the city. But a monk told Hirata that Deguchi’s friend Kitano was a retainer to Lord Satake. Hirata went to Lord Satake’s estate, where no one would tell him anything about Kitano. By then Hirata was thoroughly frustrated. As he rode up through the walled passages inside the castle, he felt guilty because he should have spent more time investigating the attack on Magistrate Ueda.

“I hear you’ve been looking for us,” someone behind him said.

The voice was a blend of smoothness and roughness, instantly familiar. At the same time, Hirata felt the aura strike him like a series of thunderbolts. Hirata froze in his saddle. He clamped his will down on the terror that leaped in him because Tahara had said “us,” not “me.”

All three of them were here.

Hirata forced himself to turn nonchalantly. He saw, bracketed by the high stone walls, Tahara and another samurai on horseback and a priest in a hemp cloak and saffron robes standing between them. The cold, drafty passage was empty of other people. Lanterns in the corridors atop the walls cast a dim, flickering glow on the men. Tahara smiled; his eyes twinkled in his handsome, rakish face. Hirata took his first good look at his other stalkers.

“Kitano-san,” Hirata said.

The soldier bowed; he removed his iron helmet. He was older than his robust figure had led Hirata to believe-in his fifties. The hair in his topknot was streaked with gray. His skin was a mesh of scars. His eyes crinkled, but the rest of his face remained immobile. The cuts that had made the scars must have damaged his facial nerves.

“Deguchi-san,” Hirata said.

At first the priest seemed a mere youth. His long, oval face and shaved head had a smooth complexion untouched by life. He wasn’t handsome-his eyes were too heavily lidded, his nose too flat, and his mouth too pursed-but he had a strange, radiant beauty. Then Hirata noticed the whisker stubble on Deguchi’s cheeks and the tough sinews in his neck. Deguchi could be any age between twenty and forty. He didn’t speak; he only bowed.

“How does it feel to be the hunted instead of the hunter for a change?” Hirata asked.

“Don’t be so sure our positions are reversed,” Tahara said with pleasant humor.

Anger made Hirata belligerent. “I know who the three of you are and where you live.”

“All that from the one clue that Tahara gave you, his name.” Kitano’s genial voice had a coarse provincial