Sano listened with half his attention. He squinted across the water to the receding shore. Although he could see no one lurking among the trees, his sense of impending danger did not diminish.
From his hiding place behind a clump of firs, the watcher stood and gazed toward the river as the ferryboat carried Sano Ichirō to the opposite bank. The yoriki kept turning around to peer at the woods. He obviously knew he was being followed. Maybe he’d guessed as far back as the post house, but certainly when the watcher had almost come upon him on that deserted stretch of road.
But the watcher kept his position, unworried. He could tell by the way Sano’s puzzled gaze had darted from one person to another on the road-and the way it now swept the woods-that Sano didn’t know who was watching him, or from where. The watcher knew that he was a superb spy. He’d had plenty of experience with disguises and hiding. His drab hat and cloak had allowed him to blend first with the other travelers, and now with the landscape. And he knew how to conceal his thoughts and intentions so that no one noticed, let alone suspected him. People-Sano included-looked straight through him as if he wasn’t there. He hadn’t had to take to the fields yet, as he might when they got farther from Edo and the traffic thinned. And he didn’t much care that the yoriki was on guard. Anxiety would eat away at him. It would reduce him to helplessness by the time the watcher was ready to make his move.
Still, one thing disturbed the watcher. Not the smells of woods and water or his need for secrecy, which all vividly reminded him of the night he’d dumped the bodies in the river. The brilliant sunlight did much to banish any similarity between then and now. And the passage of time had allowed him to recover from the worst of his fear. His nightmares had stopped. He no longer awoke, sweating, heart pounding, from dreams of his own arrest, torture, and execution.
No-it was the young samurai traveling with Sano that bothered him. He’d expected Sano to be alone, and he didn’t like surprises. Then he told himself that the boy’s presence had its advantages. Sano made slower progress than he would have otherwise. Two men were easier to track than one. The watcher could lag far behind and still keep them in view, still catch up with them at every station. And the boy would distract Sano, making him less observant, less cautious.
The ferryboat reached the opposite bank. Sano and his companion stepped out and began unloading their bags. Their horses splashed ashore. Anxiously the watcher waited as his quarries dried, loaded, and mounted their horses and disappeared over the wooded bluff beyond the river. His eagerness nearly sent him rushing after them, but he fought it. Patience, he told himself. They couldn’t escape.
He made himself wait a few more heartbeats. Then he whistled softly to his horse. She’d been waiting obediently down the road and now trotted up to meet him. The two of them descended the slope to the river, where the ferrymen and swimmers waited to convey them to the opposite shore.
He had plenty of time to choose his moment, and night would offer better opportunities than day.
Chapter 14
Sunset had turned the western sky to a clear, lavender-streaked gold by the time Sano and Tsunehiko reached the inland village of Totsuka. Although Totsuka was the sixth Tōkaido station and the usual stopping place for travelers who had left Edo in early morning, Sano had hoped to push on farther. He wanted to shake their still-unseen pursuer, if indeed one existed. But night was fast approaching, wrapping the land in its chill darkness. He and Tsunehiko were cold, tired, and hungry; the horses, too, needed warmth, rest, and food.
“We’ll spend the night here,” Sano said after they’d cleared the checkpoint at the entrance to Totsuka.
Tsunehiko, who had turned glum and silent from fatigue, smiled again. “Oh, good, Yoriki Sano-san,” he said with a heartfelt sigh of relief.
Totsuka’s thatch-roofed inns, restaurants, and teahouses stood side by side along the Tōkaido. Lanterns burned cheerily against the encroaching night. From the doorway of each establishment, pretty “waitresses”-the illegal and officially nonexistent village prostitutes-beckoned to the travelers. Earlier arrivals carried baggage into inns and drank in the teahouses. Medicine sellers hawked their salves and potions. A band of pilgrims peered into a religious-supply shop. Snatches of song and music burst from fenced courtyards, where the inns’ customers had already begun their parties. Surrounding the commercial district, the villagers’ houses nestled cozily among the trees.
Sano and Tsunehiko rode up the street in search of lodgings. They bypassed the stately, templelike edifices reserved for daimyo and court nobles. Near the middle of town, they found a small, modest inn whose front door opened directly onto the street. Its cylindrical orange lanterns bore the name Ryokan Gorobei. Signs advertised low prices for room and board; but the building seemed tidy and in good repair. The floor of its entrance way was swept clean, and its back wall was decorated with a shrine to Jizo, patron god of travelers and children. The fat little god sat on his shelf, surrounded by rice cakes, cups of sake, and burning oil lamps.
“This will do,” Sano said, dismounting.
Before he led the way inside, he looked backward. Was it just his imagination that made him think the watcher pursued them? He saw the familiar faces of travelers they’d met on the road, but none with whom he could associate that malignant presence. Trying to shed his anxiety, he told himself that soon he and Tsunehiko would be safe within four walls.
“Welcome to the Ryokan Gorobei, welcome!” The smiling innkeeper rushed out of his living quarters in back of the entrance-way to greet them. Short, bald, and rotund, he looked a bit like Jizo himself. He bowed and said, “Thank you for choosing my humble inn. I am Gorobei, and I will do everything in my power to make your stay a pleasant one.”
He brought them a register to sign, then called to the stable boy, who ran out to take charge of the horses. Then he picked up one of Jizo’s lamps and led Sano and Tsunehiko into the storage room. They left most of their baggage there, keeping with them only the things they would need that night. Tsunehiko hung his swords on the rack with those of the other guests, but Sano hesitated, his hand on the scabbard of his long sword. What if the watcher should make an appearance tonight?
“You need not worry about leaving your weapons, master,” said the innkeeper. “Very, very safe here. Ryokan Gorobei has its own nightwatchman.”
“No reflection on your establishment, but I’d rather keep them with me,” Sano told him.
Gorobei led them across a small but pretty garden to the guest quarters. Climbing the steps of a narrow veranda, he slid open a door. The room, just large enough to sleep two men, was bare and clean. Its only furnishings were the tatami mats, a charcoal brazier, and a wall cabinet to hold bedding and the guests’ personal items. Gorobei lit the brazier and the lamps that stood beside it. Then he smiled and bowed.
“I hope these poor lodgings will serve, masters. The bathhouse and privy are that way.” He pointed.”Please let me know if there is anything you need. “ With another bow, he bustled off toward the entranceway, where voices indicated that another party had arrived.
Once bathed, dressed in a comfortable robe, and enclosed in the warm, bright little room, Sano felt his tension melt away. Physical comfort made all threats seem distant and unreal.
“I’m starving,” Tsunehiko announced, wheezing as he knelt beside the brazier. “When do we eat?”
As if in answer to his question, the door slid open. A maid entered on her knees. She bowed, then gave them two trays that held generous portions of fish, rice, vegetables, and soup. Sano, weary of scrutinizing every face he saw, was glad that inns had no public dining rooms and guests ate in their own quarters. The maid poured the tea and sake, then withdrew.