“How are my grandson and my honorable daughter-in-law?” His mother adored Masahiro, but was awed by Reiko and shy with her. After Sano replied that they were well, she said, “Hana and I were on our way to the market, but we can go later. Come inside and have something to eat.”
“Thank you, but I can’t stay,” Sano said.
She noticed his men waiting on their horses down the street. “Ah. You’re busy. I mustn’t keep you.”
They parted, and Sano walked to the corner. There stood the Sano Martial Arts Academy, which occupied a long, low, wooden building with a brown tile roof and barred windows. Like many rōnin, Sano’s father had been cut loose with no skills except in the martial arts. He’d founded the academy and scratched out a meager livelihood for himself and his family. During Sano’s youth, the school had lacked the prestige to attract samurai from beyond the lower ranks. But today he saw boys and young men who wore the crests of the Tokugawa and great daimyo clans streaming in the door. His name, his high position, and the fact that he’d learned his own acclaimed fighting skills here had boosted the school’s reputation. Now it was one of the top places to train in Edo.
Sano entered the school. Inside the practice room, students dressed in loose cotton trousers and jackets sparred against one another. Amid a din of clacking wooden swords, stamping feet, and battle cries, instructors shouted directions. The sensei, Aoki Koemon, hastened over to Sano.
“Greetings,” he said with a welcoming smile.
He was a stocky, genial samurai, near Sano’s own age of thirty-six. They’d grown up together, and Koemon had once been an apprentice to Sano’s father, who had left the school to him. Sano sometimes envied his friend and childhood playmate the simple life that would have been his if not for his father’s ambitions for him.
Koemon pulled two wooden swords from a rack on the wall. “It’s been ages since you showed up for a practice session. Are you here to make up for lost time?”
“Actually, I’ve come in search of somebody,” Sano said. The school was a gossip center of the martial arts world, and a source of news he’d often plumbed. But when Koemon tossed him a sword, he caught it. They faced off, holding their weapons upright. Sano hadn’t fought a match in more than a month, and the sword felt good in his hands.
“Who is it?” said Koemon as they circled each other and the class continued nearby.
“A martial artist who has the touch of death.” Koemon lunged, whipping his sword in a fast curve. Sano dodged and barely avoided a smack on the hip.
“With all due respect, your reflexes are a lot slower than they used to be,” Koemon said. “I don’t know of anyone who practices dim-mak.”
They resumed circling. “Well, he exists.” Sano launched a series of lashes that Koemon easily parried, while he explained about the murders. “And he’s in Edo.”
“That’s amazing,” Koemon said, then attacked Sano with swift, ferocious swordplay that drove him backward against the wall.
Already breathless from exertion, Sano counterattacked, gained himself room to maneuver, and darted around Koemon. Sweat trickled down his brow as they faced off again. The sword now felt heavy in his hands, which hurt where his calluses had grown soft. “Have you heard of any martial arts masters coming to town?” Perhaps the killer numbered among those rōnin who wandered Japan, fighting duels, teaching lessons, and gathering disciples. There had been legions after the Battle of Sekigahara ninety-four years ago, during which the first Tokugawa shogun Ieyasu had defeated his rival warlords whose armies had then scattered, but their numbers had dwindled over the decades.
“Not recently,” Koemon said.
“On the other hand, he could be someone who’s been here all along.” Sano favored this theory. “Maybe the killer is an enemy of the victims-or Lord Matsudaira-who’s hidden his secret knowledge of dim-mak until now.” Sano charged and slashed.
As Koemon leapt away, Sano’s blade grazed his sleeve. “Good, you’re warming up,” Koemon said. A thought altered his expression. “I just remembered something. Do you know the priest Ozuno?”
“The name doesn’t sound familiar,” Sano said as they struck and parried. “Who is he?”
“He’s a samurai from the old days. When he lost his master, he took religious vows. He entered the monastery at Enryaku Temple on Mount Hiei.”
Mount Hiei was the sacred peak near the imperial capital. Enryaku Temple had been a mighty Buddhist stronghold of fighting priests until some hundred years ago, when its political influence and military power had posed a threat to the warlord Oda Nobunaga and he’d leveled it. The temple had since been rebuilt, and traditions died hard.
“The priests taught Ozuno their ancient secrets.” Koemon’s sword battered Sano’s. “By the time he came down from the mountain, he was an expert at the mystic martial arts and much sought after as a teacher.”
“That story has been used by legions of samurai who are trying to boost their reputations or attract pupils,” Sano said. “If it’s true in this Ozuno’s case, why isn’t he famous?”
“He’s a loner who hates publicity. And he’s very selective about whom he chooses to teach. He takes on one pupil at a time and trains him for years. He makes all his pupils swear not to reveal that they’ve studied with him or give away the techniques that he teaches them.”
This aura of secrecy jibed with what Sano knew about dim-mak and its practitioners. Fatigued from defending himself, Sano ducked Koemon’s blade; it whistled over his head. “Where can I find Ozuno?”
“When he’s in town, he lives at one temple or another,” Koemon said. “I hear he has friends at them who give him a place to stay. I don’t know if he’s still teaching. He must be ninety years old. But he still roams the country when the wanderlust takes him.”
As Sano considered this promising lead, his attention drifted from the fight. Koemon’s blade whacked him across his stomach. Sano doubled over, wincing from the blow, humbled by the abrupt defeat.
“My apologies,” Koemon said, remorseful.
“No need,” Sano said. “You won a fair victory.”
They bowed to each other, hung their swords on the rack, then gulped water from a ceramic urn. Sano thanked Koemon for the information and the combat practice.
“Any time,” Koemon said. “I’ll put the word out that you’re looking for Ozuno and send you any news I hear.”
When Sano left the school, he found his detectives at a food stall, drinking tea and eating noodles. He joined them, and as he ate, he told them about the mysterious priest.
Marume, interested yet dubious, was shoveling noodles into his mouth with his chopsticks. “Even if this fellow is still in good enough shape to kill at age ninety, it doesn’t sound as if he has any connection to Chief Ejima and the others.”
“Or to Lord Matsudaira,” said Fukida.
“Maybe one of his secret pupils does. At any rate, I think he’s worth talking to.” Sano finished his meal and set aside his empty bowl. “We’ll go back to Edo Castle and mount a search for Ozuno. And maybe there will be some news from Hirata and Detective Tachibana.”
17
Reiko paced around the room in her father’s estate where she’d interviewed Yugao two days ago. When she’d arrived this morning, she’d asked Magistrate Ueda to let her speak to Yugao again, and he’d sent men to the jail to fetch her. It was almost noon by the time the door opened. Two guards brought in Yugao. Her hands were shackled; she wore the same dirty robe. She seemed surprised and displeased to see Reiko.
“It’s you again,” she said. “What do you want now?”
The guards shoved her to her knees in front of Reiko, then departed, closing the door behind them.
“I want to talk some more,” Reiko said.