Bundori: A Novel Of Japan

which Chugo had achieved nationwide fame: iaijutsu, the art of simultaneously drawing and cutting with the sword.

Chugo sat perfectly still; he appeared not to breathe. But Sano sensed the mental energy flowing from him as his trained perception divined the positions of the unseen targets. While Sano waited in suspense for Chugo to draw his sword, he wondered what the captain's proficiency at iaijutsu said about him.

Iaijutsu was a discipline particularly suited to peacetime, when samurai kept their weapons sheathed, instead of drawn as in battle. The techniques could be used defensively, or to secure the opening move in a duel. Hence, most reputable kenjutsu masters trained their students in them. But iaijutsu had a treacherous, and therefore dishonorable aspect. Too often it was used against unwary opponents or unarmed peasants. Many of the latter had died in '“crossroad cuttings,” or “practice murders,” when a samurai merely wanted to test a new sword.

Had Chugo used his deadly skill to strike down Kaibara Toju, the ronin Tozawa, and the eta before they'd perceived the danger? Did his choice of discipline imply a willingness to attack helpless or unsuspecting victims? One thing Sano knew: Extreme devotion to the martial arts often indicated an obsessive adherence to Bushido. Had its credo of ancestor worship driven Chugo to murder?

In a single fluid motion, Chugo leapt to his feet and whisked his sword free of its scabbard. The blade's blurred white arc whistled sideways through the air, slicing off the first dummy's head. Without a pause, Chugo whirled. He severed the second, third, and fourth heads before the first hit the ground.

Sano's breath caught at the beauty and precision of Chugo's performance. Then a premonition of danger licked at him like an icy flame. He gave an involuntary shout and sprang backward. Heedless of the law that prohibited his drawing a weapon upon another man inside the castle, his hand instinctively sought his sword.

Because instead of sheathing his blade and kneeling again as the exercise dictated, Chugo came hurtling straight toward Sano, swinging his sword upward in both hands for an overhead killing cut.

Sano had his sword free and ready to parry the blow. Then, at the last instant, the guard and Chugo’s attendant realized what was happening.

“No, Chugo-san! Stop!”

Seizing Chugo’s arms, they arrested his attack. He froze, sword at the peak of its deadly ascent.

Sano froze, too, then slowly sheathed his weapon as he saw Chugo’s body relax and felt the captain’s murderous impulse subside. With his heart hammering and combat energy still surging through his body, he watched Chugo step free of his men. He let out his breath as Chugo calmly returned his sword to its scabbard, then removed the black hood.

“Sosakan-sama.”

Chugo spoke in a gruff monotone that betrayed little interest and no surprise. His long face conformed to his body’s linearity. Thick, horizontal eyebrows crossed the bridge of his thin nose. His narrow eyes, dark, unblinking, and so devoid of emotion as to appear lifeless, looked out from deep, rectangular gashes set above knife-edge cheekbones. Vertical creases etched his skin from the nostrils to a thin, almost lipless mouth. From the jawline, his chin tapered to a sharp point. Only one feature deviated from this geometric theme: the puckered scar that snaked across his shaven crown.

Encompassing both Sano and the other two men in his deathlike gaze, he said, “We won’t speak of this accident.”

Obviously he meant that no one would report the incident, and therefore neither he nor Sano would suffer the suicide penalty dictated by law. Sano, badly shaken by the violent encounter, could only nod as he tried to match Chugo’s stoic calm and organize the torrent of thoughts that flooded his mind.

Blindfolded, Chugo had decapitated all four dummies in the time it would take an ordinary swordsman to sight a target and draw his weapon. Aside from Chugo’s obvious skill at swordsmanship, however, Sano had another reason to believe he’d cut down four men in the dark of night.

Chugo had meant to kill him. This Sano knew with every particle of his being, despite the captain’s claim of an “accident.” Had Chugo lashed out in reaction to the vague threat of a stranger’s arrival? Or because he’d instinctively recognized the man who might expose him as the Bundori Killer?

“Practice is over. Put the targets away,” Chugo told his attendant. To Sano: “What do you want?”

He dismissed Sano’s escort and moved into his office, where he scrutinized the castle maps whose colored pins represented troop positions. Sano followed. He watched Chugo shift pins like a general planning a battle. The minimal chance of a siege didn’t seem to affect his dedication to his job.

“Well?” Chugo asked.

Sano found himself sorting and grouping questions in his mind, much as Chugo was doing with the pins. “You probably know that the shogun has assigned me to catch the Bundori Killer,” he said, feeling his way.: “So?”

Apparently uninterested, Chugo strode out of the command post, where he addressed his lieutenants. “The coverage of the eastern perimeter is too thin,” Sano heard him say. “Dispatch another unit there at once.”

Then he returned to the office to peruse the duty rosters. His movements had an impatient jerkiness that contrasted with the fluid grace of his swordplay. Intent on his duties, he seemed not to care if Sano ever stated the purpose of his visit.

“The labels on the heads of the killer’s victims bore the names Araki Yojiemon and Endo Munetsugu,” Sano said. “Two men who had a troubled relationship with your ancestor, General Fujiwara.”

The captain’s hand remained steady as he ran his finger along the columns of names on the roster. His lips compressed in irritation, but not surprise or dismay. “What of it?”

Sano tried to see the thoughts behind Chugo’s opaque eyes. If he was the Bundori Killer, he revealed no fear of exposure. But then Chugo, as a martial arts master, would have trained himself to suppress all signs of emotion.

“General Fujiwara had a grudge against Araki and Endo,” Sano said. “He risked his life trying to destroy them. Whoever killed Kaibara Toju, the ronin Tozawa, and the priest Endo seems to have revived the feud by attacking Araki’s and Endo’s descendants. I believe the killer is a descendant of General Fujiwara’s, out to complete his blood score.”

“Pah!” Chugo’s snort conveyed all the contempt that his face didn’t. Before he could speak, his attendant entered the office, bearing a lacquer box.

“Your meal, Honorable Captain.”

“Set it there.” Chugo knelt on the mat and pointed to the space before him. The office was warm, and he opened his kimono and rolled up the sleeves. No wounds marked his limbs or torso; he’d either evaded Brother Endo’s spear during combat, worn armor, or never fought at all. To Sano, he said, “If you’re asking me if I’m a murderer, I’m not. And my ancestors are none of your business. Besides, the past is dead.”

But was it, Sano wondered as Chugo unpacked the lunchbox. “Dried chestnuts, kelp, and abalone,” he remarked as each item appeared. “Do you always choose the foods eaten by soldiers before battle?” Perhaps Chugo wasn’t so indifferent to the past as he pretended. He was certainly familiar with war rituals.

Chugo shrugged. He ate like a man fueling his body for combat: grimly, washing down each mouthful with a gulp of sake from a battered metal flask. “I eat what I please.”

Having gotten nowhere by subtly probing this impenetrable man, Sano tried a blunt query. “If you’re not the Bundori Killer, then where were you last night?”

“That’s none of your business, either. But I’ll tell you anyway. I was here. At the castle. Where I’ve been for the past fifteen days. I never leave during my duty shift. Any of my men will tell you that.”

Sano tilted a pained glance at the ceiling. Here was another alibi, just as dubious as Matsui’s and even harder to break. The Edo Castle guards, including the gate sentries, owed allegiance to their captain. They would corroborate any story he told, take his side in any dispute, especially one with a retainer who’d lost the shogun’s favor. Even if Sano managed to find a brave or disgruntled individual willing to say otherwise, thousands more would swear to Chugo’s presence in the castle during all four murders. No magistrate would convict him without more proof. Sano thought of the two kimonos, which he had yet to show the tailors, and of the mysterious missing woman. He wondered if Hirata was having any luck finding the dragon palanquin’s maker, or learning the assassin’s identity.

“Do you own a palanquin with a dragon design on it?” he asked.

“No. I use the castle’s.” These bore no ornamentation except the Tokugawa crest.

“Have you ever hired a mercenary swordsman?”