The two guards stopped, exchanged glances, shrugged. “Come with me,” the spokesman said.
Sano offered a silent prayer of thanks for underlings who preferred to shift responsibility to their superiors. Shadowed by his escort, he followed Chūgo's steps to a large shed in the compound's corner, built under a tall watchtower. He braced himself, hoping his arrival would startle the captain into betraying guilt. But as they entered the command post, the guard shot an arm across Sano's chest.
“Wait,” he ordered.
The post's anteroom was unfurnished, earth-floored. An open door at the rear showed the captain's office, which contained a desk, cabinets, chests, pieces of armor and weaponry. The walls were covered with duty rosters and maps of the castle. Sano's attention flew to the room's center, where Chūgo Gichin knelt on a straw mat, profile to the door, fists balled on his thighs. He'd removed his armor and helmet; now, a black hood completely covered his head. An attendant was positioning four man-size straw dummies around Chūgo. Finishing, he came to stand beside Sano at the door. He raised a finger to his lips for silence. Sano nodded agreement, eyes riveted on Chūgo. Anticipation tightened his stomach. He was about to witness a demonstration of the martial arts skill for which Chūgo had achieved nationwide fame: iaijutsu, the art of simultaneously drawing and cutting with the sword.
Chūgo 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 Chūgo 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 Chūgo used his deadly skill to strike down Kaibara Tōju, the ronin Tōzawa, 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 Chūgo to murder?
In a single fluid motion, Chūgo 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, Chūgo 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 Chūgo'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, Chūgo 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 Chūgo’s attendant realized what was happening.
“No, Chūgo-san! Stop!”
Seizing Chūgo’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 Chūgo’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 Chūgo step free of his men. He let out his breath as Chūgo calmly returned his sword to its scabbard, then removed the black hood.
“Sōsakan-sama.”
Chūgo 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 Chūgo’s stoic calm and organize the torrent of thoughts that flooded his mind.
Blindfolded, Chūgo had decapitated all four dummies in the time it would take an ordinary swordsman to sight a target and draw his weapon. Aside from Chūgo’s obvious skill at swordsmanship, however, Sano had another reason to believe he’d cut down four men in the dark of night.
Chūgo had meant to kill him. This Sano knew with every particle of his being, despite the captain’s claim of an “accident.” Had Chūgo 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,” Chūgo 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 Chūgo 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?” Chūgo asked.
Sano found himself sorting and grouping questions in his mind, much as Chūgo 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, Chūgo 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 Endō 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 Chūgo’s opaque eyes. If he was the Bundori Killer, he revealed no fear of exposure. But then Chūgo, as a martial arts master, would have trained himself to suppress all signs of emotion.
“General Fujiwara had a grudge against Araki and Endō,” Sano said. “He risked his life trying to destroy them. Whoever killed Kaibara Tōju, the rōnin Tōzawa, and the priest Endō seems to have revived the feud by attacking Araki’s and Endō’s descendants. I believe the killer is a descendant of General Fujiwara’s, out to complete his blood score.”
“Pah!” Chūgo’s snort conveyed all the contempt that his face didn’t. Before he could speak, his attendant entered the office, bearing a lacquer box.