Cherry Eater stopped before the closed door of a fourth cubicle. "Noriyoshi's," he said, sliding it open.

Sano entered, stepping around the two pairs of wooden sandals on the veranda. His head grazed the low ceiling. Like the others, the room was very small; the desk against one wall took up much of the floor and left just enough s.p.a.ce for a man to sleep. Frayed, sawdust-strewn mats covered the floor. Beside the desk a wooden toolbox lay open, revealing a collection of knives, picks, and gouges. A fresh block of wood sat on the desk. Next to it was an ink sketch, and a pot of crusty, dried wheat paste with a brush stuck in it. Noriyoshi had evidently been preparing to transfer the drawing to the woodblock for carving. Sano did a double take when he looked at the sketch. It was a shunga piece, in the same style as those in the shop, but featuring two men.

"A special edition for a special client, heh, heh." Cherry Eater hovered at Sano's elbow, grinning and rubbing his hands together. "Samurai often have an interest in such things, no?"

Sano ignored the hint. Although he had never practiced manly love, nor wanted to, he shared the prevailing opinion of this and other s.e.xual matters: whatever people do in private is all right as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else. Besides, he was tired of the art dealer's innuendos and didn't much care what Cherry Eater thought of him or his cla.s.s. He turned to a battered wooden cabinet that stood against the wall opposite the desk.

The mended garments, worn bedding, chipped crockery, and collection of inks, brushes, charcoal sticks, and sketches he found inside told him nothing he didn't already know: that Noriyoshi had been an artist of some talent and limited income. Sano was finishing a cursory inspection of some cotton kimonos when his hand touched something hard. He pulled out a small drawstring pouch. Its weight surprised him-until he opened it and saw the gold koban inside. There must have been at least thirty of the shiny oval coins, enough to keep a large family in comfort for a year. Surely too much for a poor artist to possess, or to earn by legitimate means.

"Do you know where this came from?" Sano asked Cherry Eater.

With amazing swiftness, Cherry Eater's hand flicked out and s.n.a.t.c.hed the pouch. He tucked it into his coat, saying, "It's mine. Noriyoshi sometimes collected payments for me."

Sano looked from the proprietor's innocent face to his feet. Frustration mounted as he watched them shift: Cherry Eater was lying again. Sano resisted the impulse to beat the truth out of the man. His better instincts told him to have patience and seek another path to knowledge. If he didn't find it, he could always come back to the shop.

"Thank you for your kind cooperation," he said. "May I have a word with your employees now?" Maybe they could tell him more about Noriyoshi's activities.

A short time later, Sano walked back through the pa.s.sage to the shopfront more frustrated than ever. The three artists, all at least twenty years younger than Noriyoshi, had not known their colleague well. They'd only worked there for a year since coming to Edo from the provinces, they said; he hadn't spent much time with them, and they didn't know where he went or with whom he a.s.sociated during his leisure hours. Sano questioned each man alone, and he thought they were telling the truth. If Noriyoshi's friends proved as close-mouthed as Cherry Eater, he would have to canva.s.s the whole quarter in search of someone who could and would give him more information. Maybe Tsunehiko could help, he thought without much hope. He wondered where the boy was.

When he reached the shop, he found Cherry Eater talking to a frail, bald man who stood outside in the street. The man carried a long staff in one hand and a wooden flute in the other. Their voices were low, urgent.

Cherry Eater, seeing Sano, abruptly stopped talking. He said to the man, "Go now. We'll talk again later."

But the man reached out a hand to Sano. "Master samurai! I am Healing Hands, the best blind ma.s.seur in Edo! Do you have pains, or nervous complaints? Allow me to relieve them for you! My skills are legendary, my price low." He cast his sightless eyes up at Sano. Cloudy and pale, they resembled those of a dead fish.

Sano wondered how the blind man knew he was a samurai. Cherry Eater must have told him, or maybe Healing Hands had smelled his hair oil. The blind did have sharp noses.

"I can entertain you with stories while I work, master," the ma.s.seur went on. "Would you like to hear an example?"

Without prompting, he launched into his narrative. " 'The Dog Shogun. ' " His scratchy voice took on a sing-song quality. "Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, although an able ruler and a great man, has so far failed to produce an heir. His mother, the Lady Keisho-in, sought the advice of the Buddhist priest Ryuko. He told her that in order for Tsunayoshi to father a son, he must first atone for the sins of his ancestors. Together Lady Keisho-in and Ryuko persuaded Tsunayoshi that since he was born in the Year of the Dog, he should do this by issuing an edict protecting dogs.

"Now stray dogs must be fed and cared for. Fighting dogs are separated not with blows, but with a splash of cold water. Those who injure dogs are imprisoned; anyone who kills a dog is executed. And we must treat all dogs with respect. Like this!"

Healing Hands hurried over to a dog that was trotting along the street in front of the shop. He must have smelled the animal, or heard its nails clicking against the hard earth. Bowing low, he cried, "Greetings, O Inu-sama, Honorable Dog!" Then he turned to Sano. "I know many other tales, master. Would you like to hear them while you enjoy a most beneficial ma.s.sage?"

Sano smiled, wondering if Healing Hands's ma.s.sages were any better than his stories. The one about the Dog Shogun was old news; everyone had heard it when Tokugawa Tsunayoshi had issued his first Dog Protection Edict two years ago. The nation's shock and bewilderment had given way to unvoiced resentment of the money wasted on dog welfare, and the outrageous penalties inflicted on people who abused them.

"Not today," he said. Then, on impulse, he asked, "Did you know Noriyoshi?"

Cherry Eater broke in before Healing Hands could answer. "Yoriki, my friend here has an urgent appointment soon." To Healing Hands he said, "Had you not better hurry?" His feet began to shift, and his fluttering hands told Sano how anxious he was to have his friend gone.

Healing Hands ignored the hint and leaned comfortably on his staff. "Oh, yes, master," he said. "Noriyoshi was a kind man. He sent much business my way. He knew everyone, you see-great lords, wealthy merchants."

"Who was his lady friend?" Sano asked. Thanks to the ma.s.seur's garrulity, he might learn something today after all.

"Oh, you mean Wisteria? She works in the Palace of the Heavenly Garden, on Naka-no-cho. She-"

"Shut up, you fool! Say the wrong thing, and he'll have the doshin throw you in jail!"

At Cherry Eater's sharp outburst, the ma.s.seur fell silent. Sketching an apologetic gesture at Sano, he said uneasily, "I must go now, master." He turned and shuffled off down the street, tootling on his wooden flute to attract customers.

Sano took his leave of Cherry Eater and hurried after Healing Hands. He asked about Noriyoshi's enemies, and if any rumors about his death had reached the ma.s.seur's ears.

But Healing Hands had taken Cherry Eater's warning to heart. "Go and see Wisteria," was all he would say.

Sano gazed at the ma.s.seur's retreating back. This trip, while disappointing, hadn't been a total loss. He'd learned the names of Noriyoshi's a.s.sociates and lady friend, that the artist had indeed had enemies and had somehow come by a large amount of money. Any of these facts could lead to Noriyoshi's murderer. Sano and Tsunehiko would have to stay in Yoshiwara until nightfall, when the Palace of the Heavenly Garden and the other pleasure houses opened. They could catch the late ferry back to Edo.

Then Sano remembered. Tonight was to be his first visit to his family since he'd left home. At once the burden of obligation crushed him with all its suffocating pressure. He couldn't bear to postpone his inquiry just when it seemed most promising. Neither did he relish the thought of facing his parents while knowing he was defying his master's orders and risking the secure future they desired for him. To disappoint his parents-especially his father- was to fail in his duty as a son.

Sighing, he headed down the street to find Tsunehiko and tell him it was time to return to the city.

Chapter 6.

A little before the dinner hour, Sano arrived in the district where his parents lived on the edge of Nihonbashi nearest the castle, among other samurai families who had gone into trade and merged with the townspeople.

He rode through the gate that led to their street, nodding a greeting to the two guards stationed there. A short bridge took him over the willow-edged ca.n.a.l. At its opposite side, the road ran through a strip of debris-strewn ground where a recent fire had destroyed two houses on either side of the road. Sano looked upon the sight with sorrow. His father's last letter had told him about the fire, which had killed members of all four families and destroyed their businesses. As he continued down the street, he wondered what other changes had come about since he'd moved away. He pa.s.sed the grocer's, the stationer's and several food stalls, coming to a stop at the corner, outside the Sano Martial Arts Academy.

The academy occupied a long, low wooden building that stood flush with the street. Dingy brown tiles, the same color as the walls, covered the roof. Plain wooden bars screened the windows. A faded sign announced the academy's name. The place seemed both older and smaller than when he'd last seen it only a month ago. He dismounted in the gathering dusk, tied his horse's reins to the railing that bordered the narrow veranda, then entered. A wave of nostalgia swept over him.

In the practice room, oil lamps mounted on the wall lit the winter darkness. Two rows of young men dressed in loose cotton jackets and trousers faced each other in simulated combat. One row wielded wooden blades that subst.i.tuted for actual steel swords, while the others parried the sword thrusts with a variety of weapons-staffs, spears, chains, iron fans. Their shouts and stamps echoed against the walls in a deafening roar. Sano breathed in the familiar combination of smells-sweat, hair oil, damp plaster, and old wood-feeling at once comforted and sad. He couldn't remember a time when the place had not been home to him. As a boy, he'd learned his fighting skills under his father's strict tutelage, beginning as soon as he was big enough to hold a child-sized sword. Later, as a young man, he'd instructed his own pupils. He'd planned to manage the school himself someday, in the way that any oldest or only son would take over the family business upon his father's retirement.

But the school had not prospered. This was partly because many samurai no longer bothered perfecting their military skills or having their sons trained. However, the main cause lay with the academy itself. Unaffiliated with a major clan, it received no stipend, and Sano's father had to pay the authorities for permission to operate. Lacking wealthy patrons and a prestigious location, and using teaching techniques learned from an obscure master with a small following, the academy attracted fewer pupils every year. Soon there weren't enough to occupy both Sano and his father. Sano had begun tutoring to earn his keep and contribute to his family's support. This year Sano's father had announced that upon his death the school would be turned over to his apprentice, Aoki Koemon-the sensei leading this cla.s.s. Shortly afterward, he had taken Sano to see Katsuragawa Shundai about a government position.

"Sano-san!" Koemon came toward him, smiling. Bowing low, he said, "Good evening."

Sano greeted his old friend. They'd grown up together, but as adults Koemon always addressed Sano with the respect due him as the master's son. Now, seeing Koemon looking relaxed and confident in the world he himself had left behind, Sano experienced a twinge of envy. His past was closed to him; he couldn't go back. The present, with its greater financial rewards and troubling conflicts, was all he had.

"So what do you think?" Koemon asked, gesturing toward the cla.s.s.

Contemplating the students, whose faces were familiar, and the array of weapons, which was not, Sano nodded. "Times have changed," he said.

He and his father and Koemon had debated for several years whether to include nontraditional weapons in the school's curriculum. His father, a strict devotee of kenjutsu, had wanted to limit instruction to the art of swordsmanship.

"Nowadays a samurai must be prepared to face opponents armed with a variety of weapons, and besides, the school must offer something new to attract pupils." Sano repeated the arguments that he and Koemon had used to counter the old man's opposition. But seeing that the change had been made in his absence gave him an inexplicable touch of uneasiness that he forgot when he noticed the weapon that Koemon held.

"You teach the art of the jitte?" he asked.

Koemon shrugged. "The basics. I'm no expert at it."

More out of curiosity than need, Sano had experimented with the jitte in the practice hall at the barracks. "Let's try it now," he said, shedding his cloak and hat and rolling up his sleeves.

With Koemon using a wooden sword in deliberate slow motion, Sano demonstrated how to deflect its blade, and how to deliver counterblows with the jitte.

"Parry like this," he said, raising the jitte to block a cut to his shoulder. "Counterstrike before your opponent recovers- quickly, because his reach is longer than yours."

He swung the weapon around to tap its slender shaft against Koemon's arm. After blocking another cut, he thrust the blunt end at his friend's neck.

"And when the time is right-" He arrested Koemon's next slice by catching the blade in the jitte's p.r.o.ngs. One sharp twist, and he'd wrenched the weapon from his friend's hand. "With enough force, you can break your opponent's sword in two."

Then they exchanged weapons so he could demonstrate how to keep one's blade free of the jitte's p.r.o.ngs and the footwork necessary to avoid getting thrown or hit once the blade was caught. Soon he was hot and sweaty, his energy flowing with the welcome exercise. It felt good to be back in the familiar practice room. He could almost believe he still belonged there.

When they'd finished, Koemon turned to the cla.s.s, raising his voice over the din: "That's all for today!"

At his command, the pupils froze. Silence fell over the room. They bowed to their opponents and to Sano and their sensei, then filed toward the dressing-room door.

"Where is my father?" Sano asked when he and Koemon were alone. "Out on business?"

Koemon hesitated. "He didn't come in today."

Sano's uneasiness returned. His father never missed a day of work. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"I don't know." Koemon avoided Sano's eyes, indicating that he did know what was wrong, but either didn't want to say or had been told not to.

Sano bid a hasty good-bye to his friend. Now the change in the school's curriculum took on an ominous significance. Why had his father finally consented to it? With a knot of worry tightening in his stomach, Sano left the practice room. He led his horse around the corner, down the narrow side lane. There high fences shielded the rear lots of the businesses, where the proprietors' living quarters were located. Through c.h.i.n.ks in the fences, he could see the yellow flicker of lamps burning in gardens and hear the customary evening sounds: servants chattering, wooden buckets thunking their way up from wells, horses whinnying in stables behind the houses. The pungent odors of miso soup and garlic drifted from kitchens. But food was the farthest thing from Sano's mind as he pushed open his parents' gate.

He backed his horse into its s.p.a.ce in the stable in the garden. Seeing the other stall empty increased his anxiety. His father had been predicting his own death for several years now. But the old man's failure to replace his horse when it died a few months ago was a more eloquent and sobering statement that his life was nearing its end.

Sano went into the house, leaving his shoes and swords in the entry way. In the large, earth-floored kitchen to his right, the elderly maid Hana knelt before the stove, stirring soup. Beside it, a pot of rice simmered. Vegetables lay on a wooden table beside the stone washbasin. Two black lacquer ozen stood near the wall, already set with bowls, chopsticks, and saucers. Sano nodded in response to Hana's smiling bow. She'd worked for the family since before his birth; normally he would have paused to chat with her, but a deep, barking cough sounded from inside the main room. Sano slid open the door.

His father sat huddled beneath a voluminous quilt. Bent over double, he coughed wrackingly into the cloth that Sano's mother held to his mouth. Then he drew a shallow, gasping breath and began to cough again. Sano's mother made soothing noises. With her free hand, she pulled the end of the quilt over the brazier, so that its warmth might reach her husband. An oil lamp on the floor beside them cast their shadows against the walls of the small room and highlighted the lines of suffering on the old man's emaciated face.

"Otosan!" Sano cried in dismay.

For a long time now, his father's health had been poor without ever seeming to get worse. Now Sano was shocked to see how much his father had deteriorated in just one month.

Both parents turned simultaneously to look at him, his father's cough subsiding.

"Otosan, why didn't you tell me you were ill?" Sano demanded, kneeling beside his father.

Spent, eyes closed, the old man shook his head. One thin hand came out from under the quilt and feebly waved away Sano's question.

Sano's mother answered for her husband. "He didn't want to worry you, Ichiro-chan," she said. "And anyway, he's much better today. He'll be fine soon." Her voice and smile were bright, but her careworn face told the truth. She looked down at the cloth she held. Seeing the bloodstains, she hastily hid it in her lap.

"Has he seen the doctor?" Sano asked her, trying not to show impatience with her self-delusion. She had always denied the existence of problems, both because she hoped that to do so would make them go away, and because her upbringing had taught her to always present an untroubled facade to the world. He couldn't force her to confront the gravity of his father's illness; time and nature would do that. Pity for her nearly overshadowed his own grief.

"No doctor," Sano's father rasped. He coughed again-a mercifully short spell this time-then said, "It grows late. We will eat now. Omae, bring the food. Our son must not go hungry."

Sano's mother rose obediently and left the room.

With an aching heart, Sano noted another ominous change in his father. The old man had never liked to talk about his symptoms- the cough, the pains, the fever, the difficulty in breathing. Still, he'd willingly consulted doctors and tried their remedies; he'd visited fortune tellers to find out how long he had to live; he'd gone to both Shinto and Buddhist priests for prayers that might convince the G.o.ds to spare his life. Now, though, he was accepting his illness and its inevitable result with stoic resignation. Sano's eyes burned with unshed tears. Not wanting his parents to see them, he bent his head over the damp washcloth that his mother brought him. He could not meet her eyes as she gave his hand a brief caress.

Hana placed food-laden ozen before Sano and his father. They ate in silence, as usual strictly observing the custom of no conversation during meals. With nothing to distract him, Sano couldn't help noticing how little his father ate, and how slowly. A few spoonfuls of miso soup, a fragment of pickled white radish, and a sliver of fish, with tiny sips of tea between bites. His mother, who usually plied Sano with more food than he could eat, instead devoted her whole attention to constantly refilling her husband's dishes in a futile effort to make him eat more. Sano resolved to bring up the subject of doctors again when the meal ended.

But when the ozen were removed and the smoking tray brought, his father spoke first.

"I have found a prospective bride for you, Ichiro," he said. "She is Ikeda Akiko, nineteen years old, with a dowry of four hundred ryo."

Sano kept his face expressionless. His father persisted in making proposals on his behalf only to the daughters of wealthy samurai. This was why Sano remained unhappily single at the advanced age of thirty. He didn't want to contradict his father, but he hated to see him suffer yet another humiliation when, predictably, the proposal was rejected.

He said, "The Ikedas rank far above us, Otosan. I don't think they would want me for a son-in-law."

"Nonsense!" His father's exclamation set off another coughing fit. "Our go-between will send gifts and contact them to arrange a miai. I am sure they will consent. Especially now that you are a yoriki."

Yoriki or not, the Ikedas would never agree to the miai-a formal meeting of him and Akiko and the two families-Sano knew. They would probably send the gifts back by return messenger.

"Yes, Otosan," he said, afraid his father would cough again if he disagreed. Surely that frail body could not stand much more strain.

Satisfied, his father changed the subject. "Does your work go well, my son?" he asked, lighting his pipe from the metal basket of embers on the tray. He took a puff, coughed, spat into a napkin, and set the pipe down.

Sano decided to say nothing about Magistrate Ogyu's reprimand or the illicit murder investigation. Instead he described his office, his duties, and his living quarters, presenting each in as favorable a light as possible without boasting. He didn't mention his colleagues' coldness or his own unhappiness.

The gleam of pride in his father's eyes was his reward. The old man sat straighter, and Sano could see the warrior who had once stood against entire cla.s.ses of samurai in practice sword fights.

"Continue to serve well and faithfully in your position," he admonished, "and you will never lack a master. You must never become ronin."

His father had become a ronin-a masterless samurai-when the third Tokugawa shogun, Iemitsu, had confiscated Lord Ku's lands forty years ago, turning the Sano family and the rest of the lord's retainers out to fend for themselves. His pride had never recovered from the blow of losing his master, his livelihood, and the hereditary position that had come down to him through many generations. But unlike other ronin, he hadn't turned into an outlaw or rebel. Instead, he'd founded the academy and lived quietly, nursing his shame and sorrow. When Sano first heard as a child of the Great Conspiracy of four hundred ronin who had tried to overthrow the government, he hadn't believed the story. As an adult, he was aware of the undercurrent of dissatisfaction that flowed beneath the country's peaceful surface, and of the Tokugawas' ongoing efforts to sniff out and contain the rebellions that arose among idle, unemployed samurai. But as a boy, he'd mistakenly a.s.sumed that all ronin were strict, law-abiding men like his father, who directed their energy and ambition toward making their sons succeed where they had failed. Now he felt a surge of guilt as he wondered what his father would think if he knew how Sano had risked disgrace and possible dismissal by disobeying his new master's orders.

At the same time, a spark of irrational anger kindled in him. Hadn't his father, however unintentionally, fostered the searching, inquiring nature that now placed his future at risk? Hadn't his father sent him to the temple school to study literature, composition, math, law, history, political theory, and the Chinese cla.s.sics to supplement the military skills he learned at home? The monks had educated him far beyond the usual scope of the common foot soldier, now virtually obsolete in a country without war. They'd taught him to think rather than to blindly follow orders, as he would have to do in the high-level government position his father had desired for him.

"Now that you are on the path to glory, I can leave this world willingly, with a peaceful mind," his father added softly, as if to himself.

Sano's anger died; guilt remained. He realized that his father had fought illness and held on to life just long enough to see him settled. Now the old man was giving up. How could Sano jeopardize the position that was supposed to secure the future his father wanted for him? How could he pursue a course that was bound to put him at odds with those who now controlled that future? The answer was simple enough: he couldn't. His father's spirit would never forgive him. The murder investigation wasn't worth that; truth and justice wouldn't bring Noriyoshi and Yukiko back to life. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he failed in the obligation that his own name set out for him.

Ichiro. First-born son.

And, since he was an only child, the burden of filial duty rested on him alone.

Chapter 7.

The eighteenth day of the twelfth month, Genroku year one," Sano dictated. "Record of the day's police activities." He proceeded to summarize the reports given him by the doshin. "Total arrests: forty-seven. Seventeen for disorderly conduct, twelve for theft, eight for mistreating or killing dogs, six for a.s.sault, three for adultery, one for prost.i.tution outside the licensed quarter.

"Two samurai-one disorderly conduct, one a.s.sault-were placed under house arrest. The commoners were remanded to Edo Jail. The heads of all three adultresses have been shaved, and their husbands granted divorces."

When Tsunehiko handed him the finished report, he affixed his seal to it. "Take this to Magistrate Ogyu's office. Then you may go home. That's all for today."

He suppressed a yawn, rubbing his eyes. They felt gritty and sore from lack of sleep. Last night he hadn't returned to the barracks. Instead he'd stayed at his parents' house, alternately sitting at his father's bedside, bathing the old man's face and administering herb tea to ease the pain, and lying awake listening to the coughs that shook the house.