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 doshin froze at the sound of Sano’s voice. Shock and horror rounded his eyes and mouth. Then he dropped his sword. “Sōsakan-sama?”
“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. “Sōsakan-sama, gomen nasai-a thousand pardons for hitting you! I was just following your orders.” Pointing, he raised his whisper to a loud, urgent hiss: “Matsui Minoru is in there!”
Stunned, Sano stared first at Hirata, then at the shop Chūgo had entered. What were the two suspects doing together?
Chapter 24
Chūgo 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 Chūgo, 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 Chūgo a cup of sake.
The remark, as well as Matsui’s familiar manner, nettled Chūgo. “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 Chūgo 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?” Chūgo 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 Endō clans instead of serving his lord’s allies. After his death, three of his sons-Chūgo’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 Chūgo’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.”
Chūgo’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. Chūgo’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 Kantō, the rich agricultural provinces outside Edo. Thus the family became separated by physical distance as well as mutual resentment.
Chūgo 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 of money. Last year, I believe.”
No doubt he could name the exact date and amount if he chose, Chūgo thought as hatred’s bitter swell filled his throat. The merchant paid scrupulous attention to every business detail. The knowledge that Matsui was toying with him added to his anger, as did Matsui’s next remark.
“Even you, cousin, must admit that we merchants are of some use, no?”
The vulgar oaf would remind him of the shameful fact that while the samurai ruled the land, the merchants controlled its wealth. However, Chūgo’s family hadn’t forseen the double-edged consequences of Matsui’s defection from the samurai ranks when they’d first received news of it.
Chūgo had been fourteen-a year short of manhood and his career with the Edo Castle guard. On that summer morning, he’d been practicing swordsmanship in the barracks with three other young samurai when a castle messenger ran up to his family’s quarters. When his father came to the door to receive the scroll, Chūgo intensified the swordplay, battering mercilessly at the other boys with his wooden sword. He barely heard their cries or felt their counterblows. He knew only the desire to excel, to win, to show his father his worth.
Realizing that the game had turned deadly serious, Chūgo’s opponents fled, screaming. Feeling like the great General Fujiwara, whose blood ran in his veins, Chūgo looked to his father for praise.
His father stood on the veranda. Having just gone off duty, he still wore full armor. The open scroll dangled from his hand. His troubled gaze passed straight through his son.
“Your cousin Minoru has abandoned his post as warden of His Excellency’s estate in north Kantō and opened a sake brewery in Ise,” he said.
Contempt harshened his voice, but his strange smile bespoke pleasure as well as distaste; his eyes gleamed with righteous satisfaction. “Out of some remaining vestige of decency, Minoru has dropped the Fujiwara name-for which we can be thankful-and now calls himself Matsui.”
Chūgo’s father had schooled him in Fujiwara clan history from an early age. He understood that his cousin’s shameful act, while disgracing the clan, elevated his own branch within its hierarchy. He grinned, triumphant as though he’d won another victory.
Then his father’s eyes focused on him, and Chūgo saw himself as the older man must: a lanky, barefoot youth with a silly wooden sword. Through the misery of his shame and inadequacy, he heard his father’s voice.