Sano lurched to his feet. Dizzy and disoriented, he trod on the hems of his trousers, and nearly fell again. Only his years of training and swift natural reflexes allowed him to right himself and draw his sword. Not waiting for his assailant to strike first, he launched a wild diagonal slice. His blade met his opponent’s in a resounding clash of steel. He couldn’t see the man’s face, hidden under a wide hat, or distinguish any details about him other than his medium height, short kimono, and tight leggings.
“Who are you?” he shouted.
Without answering, his attacker thrust his weight against their crossed blades. Sano jumped backward, avoiding a wicked up-slash that would have slit him from groin to throat. The wall of a shop halted him with a shuddering slam. Fresh pain burst in his already sore back. He parried another cut the instant before it reached his chest. Now his attacker’s face was almost touching his as they both struggled to free their blades. He heard and smelled the other’s sour breath. Pushing away from the wall, he managed to shove the man aside and regain clear maneuvering space in the street.
He circled the crouched figure at a distance of several paces, delaying the next clash. As a samurai, he’d been born to fight, to kill, to die by the sword. Battle lust rose in him, fiery and intoxicating, his learned response after thirty-one years of conditioning.
Yet he’d had enough senseless violence and bloodshed to last a lifetime. And he wanted to know who this man was, why he’d attacked.
The man launched a fresh assault, forcing Sano to return strike for strike. Steel rang upon steel; echoes reverberated from the walls. They dodged and pivoted, rushed and retreated. Sano’s recently injured left arm ached whenever he wielded the sword with both hands. A part of his mind registered distant sounds, growing closer. Shouts. Running footsteps. Doors screeching open. On the periphery of his vision, he saw lights moving toward him. But instead of fleeing, his attacker persisted.
Sano’s inner energy, called forth by combat, flowed from his spiritual center, empowering him. But that perfect coordination of conscious thought and unconscious action, which he’d rarely approached and achieved only once before, eluded him. Forced to rely heavily on learned expertise, he must win this fight in a rational, rather than a spiritual way. As he parried strikes, he noted his opponent’s bold strokes, flamboyant style, and aggressive risk taking. Shrewdly he encouraged these faults. He adopted an awkward crouching posture. He limited his cuts to defensive parries, yielding the offensive to his attacker. He slowed his movements by a carefully calculated instant. With these ploys, he achieved his aim of making himself seem less competent than he was, but also endangered his life. The whistling blade shredded his left sleeve; a line of pain burned his forearm. A low slice grazed his shins and left the hem of his kimono flapping. He dodged just in time to avoid a cruel cut to the temple.
Gradually he became aware that a crowd had gathered in the street, which was now almost as bright as day. He could see his attacker’s fierce grimace beneath the concealing hat. The spectators, bearing lanterns and torches, surrounded them in a ragged, shifting circle. Now his lunging, darting opponent moved against a changing background of figures: excited samurai, cheering and hooting; two gate sentries, mouths open in awe, spears dangling idle in their hands, one holding the reins of Sano’s horse, which must have tried to run past them in its wild flight; men who looked like shopkeepers, armed with clubs and sticks, eyes alight with vicarious excitement. Fragments of talk impinged on Sano’s concentration:
“What’s going on, why are they fighting?”
“It’s the Bundori Killer!”
“But they’re men, not ghosts, and that one wears the shogun’s crest.”
“It’s just a duel.”
Although any of them would have readily defended their own lives, families, and property, no one moved to help Sano. They knew better than to interfere when samurai fought. One stray cut could kill anyone who got in the way.
Now Sano saw that his ruse was working. He felt his opponent gaining false confidence, growing even bolder. At last, Sano seized his chance.
He took a weak swipe at his opponent, who parried easily. Sano dropped to his left knee, pretending that the stroke had downed him. The man raised his sword high in both hands. His grimace widened into a grin as he prepared to deliver the final killing cut.
Sano moved with all the speed and strength he’d held in reserve. Before the deadly blade reached him, he lashed out his own sword in a short horizontal arc.
The man screamed in agony as the blade cut deep into his belly. Dropping his sword, he crumpled to his knees, hands pressed against the front of his kimono. Blood and entrails spilled from between his fingers. He raised his head to gaze in shocked disbelief at Sano.
Rising and backing away, Sano saw the life fade from the man’s eyes, and animation leave his features. The attacker opened his mouth as if to cry out again. A gout of blood spurted forth. Then he fell sideways and lay motionless, hands still clasped over the fatal wound.
Sano cleaned his bloody sword on his soiled, tattered garments and sheathed it. With the heady heat of the battle still pulsing through his veins, he stared down at his conquered enemy while the silent crowd watched and waited. His heart’s agitated thudding slowed and stabilized. His lungs stopped heaving; the cold night air dried the sweat on his face as he tried to make sense of what had happened.
Believing that the key to the murders lay in the samurai victims’ connections with Araki Yojiemon and Endō Munetsugu, Sano didn’t think he’d slain the Bundori Killer. His own lineage disqualified him as a target; he had no family ties to Araki or Endō. And how, without a concealing cloak or a container of some kind, could his assailant have transported a severed head past the strolling crowds, gate sentries, and police? If only he could have spared the man’s life and learned his name, his motives.
Sano knelt beside the body and pushed aside the wicker hat that had fallen over its owner’s face. In the glow of the spectators’ lanterns he saw small, sharp features and teeth; the youngish, fox-like visage of a total stranger. Gingerly he rummaged inside the dead man’s blood-soaked garments, seeking a clue to his identity. His probing fingers touched a hard lump secreted between the under and outer kimonos. He pulled out a cloth pouch whose contents clinked as he loosened the drawstring. Into his hand he poured ten gold koban and a folded paper.
The shiny coins drew gasps from the crowd. Sano unfolded the paper. A handful of dried melon seeds trickled out. As he read the characters inked on the paper, revelation chilled him.
“What’s going on here?”
Looking up at the sound of a familiar voice, Sano recognized his old foe, the doshin Tsuda.
“You again.” Tsuda’s gaze moved from Sano to the corpse, then back; he scowled. “Sōsakan-sama or not, you’re under arrest. I’m taking you to police headquarters.”
Sano got to his feet. Wiping his bloody hands on his ruined kimono, he said, “I killed him in self-defense. But I’ll be glad to go to headquarters with you. I want to report that someone has hired this assassin to murder me.”
Police headquarters occupied a site on the southern edge of the Hibiya administrative district, as far from the city officials’ mansions and the castle as possible because of the spiritual pollution its association with executions and death conferred. Sano, escorted by the surly Tsuda, gained entry from the guards at the gate and left his horse with them. Inside the walled courtyard lined with doshin barracks, he stared in surprise.
The yard, which should have been empty at the day’s end, was jammed with people. A crowd of young samurai, hands tied behind their backs and minus their swords, squatted on the ground. All sported bruises and bloody gashes. They glowered at a gang of young peasants in similar condition. Doshin and assistants stood watch over them all.