until he was directly opposite it. Through the translucent paper windowpanes, he saw at least four shadowy figures moving around in the lighted room. If two were Chugo and his victim, then who were the others? He had to see! But heavy bars secured the windows. The wooden door, plaster walls, and thatched roof appeared solid, with no apparent chinks he could use for peepholes.
Sano crept back down the block and led his horse around the corner to an alley that ran behind the shop. The alley was wide, but crowded with stinking wooden garbage containers, night-soil bins, and public privies. Darkness enveloped the buildings, whose overhanging balconies partially blocked the moonlit sky. Sano entered, restraining his horse and tiptoeing so as not to arouse the notice of anyone inside the living quarters over and behind the shops. After secreting his horse between two privy sheds, he looked in both directions, but saw no one. Counting doors, he reached the building Chugo had entered. His frustration increased at the sight of the shuttered windows and iron-banded door.
He didn’t see the figure creeping toward him down the alley until it was almost within touching distance.
Alarm blared inside him like a soundless scream. In an instant, he noted the man’s sinister appearance: the wide hat worn low over the face; the hand under a baggy cloak that surely hid a weapon. And the abrupt pause that meant he’d seen Sano, too.
Sano didn’t wait for the attack to come. He hurled himself at the assassin.
The impact of their collision jarred Sano’s bones and forced a startled grunt from the assassin. Together they crashed to the ground, Sano on top. He struggled to subdue his adversary, who was heavier than he, and obviously a seasoned fighter. Conscious of Chugo inside the shop just a few paces away, Sano bit back a cry as a fist struck his cheek. He swallowed the pain when his opponent drove a knee into his stomach. They rolled over, and Sano’s head slammed against hard ground before a muscle-straining heave regained him the upper position. With his knee, he pinned the assassin’s right hand, which was scrabbling for the sword he could feel under the man’s cloak. At the same time, he fended off more blows. He managed to get both hands around the assassin’s neck. Taking a deep breath, he squeezed.
The man gasped and coughed. His body bucked, trying to throw Sano off. His nails gouged Sano’s fingers. Sano bore down steadily, but didn’t exert enough pressure to kill. He wanted his foe alive, and talking.
“Who hired you?” he demanded in a loud whisper, panting with his effort to restrain the thrashing man.
Wheezing and gurgling beneath his hat, which had fallen over his face, the assassin continued to fight. His knee sought Sano’s groin, almost dislodging him. Sano banged the man’s head on the ground.
“Who sent you? Talk!”
He throttled the enemy until his struggles weakened. Then he eased the pressure. This time, the assassin went limp and spread his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“All right,” he rasped. “Just please let me live.”
Sano cautiously removed his hands from the man’s throat and sat back on his knees. “Who-?”
He never saw the punch that exploded against his chin and sent him flying backward to smash against a wall. His ears rang; he saw angry red fireworks. As he lurched to his feet, he saw his opponent rushing at him, hat off, sword raised. Sano knew he might never learn the identity of assassin or employer; instead, he must kill or be killed. He drew his own sword.
The instant before the assassin let loose his first cut, a ray of moonlight caught his face. Surprised recognition arrested Sano’s defensive parry.
“Hirata?”
The young
“Shhh!” Sano put a finger to his lips. In their surprise, both of them had spoken loudly. “Hirata, I’m sorry I attacked you,” he whispered. “But what are you doing here?”
Hirata fell to his knees and bowed. “
Stunned, Sano stared first at Hirata, then at the shop Chugo had entered. What were the two suspects doing together?
Chapter 24
Chugo Gichin knelt on the floor of the moneylending shop, watching Matsui Minoru pour sake. The shop’s lamplit main room was empty except for him and his host. Matsui’s clerks had long since left; their scales for weighing gold stood idle on the shelves beside the abacuses they used to count it. The desks were clear of the ledgers, writing materials, and strings of coins that would litter them during the day. Matsui’s two nightwatchmen had retreated to the back room to resume standing guard over money and records. Of Matsui’s many customers, nothing remained except the lingering smell of tobacco smoke. To Chugo, the stench symbolized the taint of money. He felt soiled, as if being here contaminated his warrior spirit. His stomach twisted with ingrained loathing for Matsui: merchant, ex-samurai, symbol of greed and dishonor. And, unfortunately, his blood relative.
“Isn’t it strange how destiny once led us apart, only to bring us together again, my kinsman?” With a genial smile, Matsui offered Chugo a cup of sake.
The remark, as well as Matsui’s familiar manner, nettled Chugo. “We ceased to be kinsmen when you abandoned the Way of the Warrior,” he retorted. Reluctant to advertise his connection with Matsui, he’d taken pains to make sure no one had seen him come here. Now he accepted the cup, but only pretended to drink. “I don’t consider you family. Even if we are cousins by birth.”
Matsui’s cheerful laugh had a dangerous edge. “Well, that was blunt… cousin.” He tossed back his own drink and regarded Chugo with a bright, challenging stare. “Perhaps we’ll soon see which of us brings the family more honor. Or more disgrace.”
“So you invited me here to insult me?” Chugo demanded. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have come.”
Anger’s corrosive poison spread through his chest. But the acrimony between him and Matsui had not begun with them. It had deep roots in the past.
After Oda Nobunaga’s murder, most of his retainers were redistributed between his chief generals, Toyotomi Hideyoshi and Tokugawa Ieyasu. But General Fujiwara had spent the short remainder of his life attacking the Araki and Endo clans instead of serving his lord’s allies. After his death, three of his sons-Chugo’s great-grandfather included-had sworn allegiance to Tokugawa Ieyasu. Matsui’s great-grandfather became a commander under Toyotomi Hideyoshi, surpassing his brothers because his master was Oda’s direct successor. This coup had caused a serious rift between the competitive brothers, who’d broken off all contact.
Now the thought of that ancient rivalry stoked Chugo’s anger. Setting down his full cup, he started to rise. “Excuse me. I must get back to my post.”
Matsui only laughed again. “You know why I asked you here, and that’s why you came. That’s why you’re neglecting the duty you consider more noble than the pursuit of money-even if you are just a glorified watchman protecting your master from a nonexistent threat.”
Chugo’s anger flamed into outrage. Clenching his jaws and fists, he yearned to draw his sword and slay the merchant. His greatgrandfather must have felt the same animosity toward Matsui’s. And with what satisfaction must he have greeted the next major event in the family saga.
The rift between General Fujiwara’s sons had widened with Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s death and Tokugawa Ieyasu’s ascension. Chugo’s ancestor, having fought heroically under the victorious Ieyasu at the Battle of Sekigahara, had accompanied the new shogun to Edo Castle. Matsui’s, and the other two brothers, received lesser posts throughout the Kanto, the rich agricultural provinces outside Edo. Thus the family became separated by physical distance as well as mutual resentment.
Chugo forced himself to sit back and lift his cup again. He couldn’t afford the luxury of venting his anger, because he’d indeed guessed that Matsui had summoned him for one of two reasons.
Seeking a quick end to their meeting, he broached the more innocuous, though not less serious topic. “You wish to discuss my loan?”
Matsui’s eyebrows rose in feigned surprise. “Your loan? Oh, yes, now I remember. You did borrow a large sum
