“No!” Reiko screamed.
Her voice echoed across the hills. The victor slowly turned to her.
As the moonlight revealed him, Reiko braced herself to see the face of Kobori, the assassin who’d slain her husband. But instead the light illuminated Sano’s face. It was so battered, bloody, and swollen that Reiko barely recognized him. But it was Sano, alive and victorious. Such relief overwhelmed Reiko that she almost fainted. She moaned and would have run to Sano, but he held up his hand.
“Don’t come any closer,” he said. “Kobori’s alive.”
The prone figure stirred. Marume and Fukida rushed across the roof. They seized Kobori and bound his wrists and ankles with his sash. Reiko hurried to Sano. He held her in his arms as she wept with joy.
“I thought you were dead!” she cried. “I thought the Ghost killed you!
Sano gave a chuckle that turned into a coughing fit. “You should have a little more faith in me.”
They looked down at Kobori, trussed like game from a hunt. His face was unmarked but deathly pale, bathed with sweat. His breath wheezed through gritted teeth. The consciousness in his dark eyes was fading like the glow of embers quenched by water. But he looked up at Sano; malicious humor animated his features.
“You think you’ve won,” he whispered. “But I defeated you before our fight began. Do you remember the night I came to your house?” His chest heaved in a soundless laugh. “While you were sleeping, I touched you.” As Sano and Reiko gazed at him, too shocked and horrified to speak, he closed his eyes. His last breath sighed from him.
34
The sun floated up through the gray dawn sky like a drop of blood swimming in an ocean of quicksilver. Temple bells rang, echoing across the hills, awakening Edo. Over the Nihonbashi Bridge streamed townspeople bound for work and travelers laden with bundles and armed with walking sticks. Along the banks of the canal, fishermen off-loaded their catch from boats. Gulls screeched and flocked. Through the crowds entering the fish market wandered a news-seller.
“The Ghost and his lady have been defeated!” he cried. “Read the whole thrilling story here!”
Customers eagerly snatched the broadsheets from him; coins exchanged hands. Near the foot of the bridge, a curious mob gathered at the place where executed criminals were displayed as a warning to the citizens. Today there were two severed heads mounted on a gibbet. One belonged to a woman; her long black hair blew in the cool, moist breeze. The other had the shaved crown and topknot of a samurai. Their faces were withered, pecked by birds, and rotting after four days of exposure to the elements. Their mouths and empty eye sockets gaped. Flies buzzed around them; maggots teemed in foul red holes. Bare bone showed on noses, cheeks, and brows. Dried gore blotched the ground under them. Only the tags affixed to the gibbet identified the criminals.
The woman’s read, YUGAO, MURDERESS; WOUNDED WHILE RESISTING ARREST; SURVIVED LONG ENOUGH TO BE EXECUTED. The man’s read, KOBORI, ASSASSIN; KILLED IN A FIERCE BATTLE.
Little boys swarmed around the heads, laughing and making fun of them. One hurled a stone that bounced off the man’s. They scampered away.
At Edo Castle, officials walked, trotted on horseback, or rode in palanquins out the main gate. They fanned into the Hibiya administrative district, going about their business, secure in the knowledge that the Ghost no longer stalked the city and they were in no more danger than usual. The wind that swept the streets carried ashes from funeral pyres, a reminder of the men who’d perished in the battle against Kobori. Black drapery on the castle gate honored their valor.
Inside the chamberlain’s compound, Masahiro stood in the garden. The boy wore a white jacket and trousers; his bare toes peeked through the grass. A little wooden sword hung in a scabbard tied to his sash. His face was solemn with concentration. Suddenly he contorted his features in a fierce scowl. He drew the sword, emitted a loud roar, then lunged and slashed at an invisible foe.
“That was very good,” Sano said as Masahiro looked eagerly to him for approval. “Now try this.”
Clad in his own white garments, he drew his own wooden practice sword and demonstrated a series of moves. Masahiro imitated them with more exuberance than grace, but Sano took pride in his son’s first baby steps toward mastering the martial arts. He took pleasure from the vivid purple irises blooming around the pond, the sweet fragrance of jasmine, the coolness of the morning, and the sound of Reiko’s voice speaking to the servants nearby in the house.
He relished the fact that he was alive.
Four days had passed since he’d defeated Kobori, and six since Kobori had stolen into his bedchamber. Every night when Sano had gone to sleep, he’d feared he wouldn’t see another dawn. Every waking moment he’d waited for an internal explosion of energy that would stop his heart, extinguish his consciousness. He’d watched Reiko watch him anxiously, expecting him to drop dead. Yet he had not, even though he’d suffered grievous injuries at the Ghost’s hands.
By the time he’d gotten home after the battle, he’d been in such pain he’d fainted at the gate. By the next morning he was covered with bruises and so stiff and sore he couldn’t move. His urine came out crimson with blood. Reiko fed him broth out of a spoon because chewing hurt. So did breathing. A physician treated him with medicinal potions and massages; a priest chanted prayers over him. Urgent summonses from Lord Matsudaira and the shogun went unanswered. Sano had abandoned the government to run itself while he lay on what he thought was his deathbed…
… until he’d begun to recover. Yesterday he’d felt well enough to get out of bed and eat solid food. Today he could move without extreme pain. The bruises were fading. There had been no single, revelatory moment when Sano knew that the Ghost hadn’t given him the touch of death; rather, a gradual belief had sunken in that Kobori’s last words had been a mere false threat meant to terrify him, a vain attempt at revenge. Now he celebrated each moment as a rare, fragile gift. As he gave Masahiro his first lesson in swordsmanship, he silently thanked the gods that the bond between father and son was unbroken. He rejoiced that he would live to guide his little boy along the path to manhood, to protect him, to see him grow into an honorable samurai, make a name for himself, and father his own children.
But this moment of perfect peace and happiness couldn’t last. Sano had duties of grave importance.
“That’s all for today, Masahiro,” he said.
They sheathed their swords. “We swordfight again tomorrow?” Masahiro said.
“Yes,” Sano promised, “tomorrow.”
A crowd gathered outside a small shrine wedged in a road of basketry shops in Ginza. Out the torii gate marched Detectives Arai and Inoue, hauling two samurai rebel outlaws who’d been hiding in the shrine. Hirata followed on horseback with more detectives who carried out guns, ammunition, and firebombs that the rebels had stockpiled for attacks on Lord Matsudaira’s regime. As he passed the gawking spectators, Hirata reflected on what a dramatic difference a few days could make.
Business was back to normal now that Kobori had been slain. Sano’s position was secure, and so was Hirata’s own. Yet not much else had changed for Hirata. He was still a prisoner of his ailing body. He still sat on the sidelines while other men acted, as he had during the battle against Kobori. His memory of that night was clouded with the shame of his helplessness. His life seemed destined to continue this way, for he hadn’t seen Ozuno again, even though he’d spent every spare moment looking for the priest. Ozuno was an opportunity that fate had tantalized him with, then taken away.
But Hirata closed the door on self-pity and regret. He had his position, his family, and his good name. He still had his dreams in which he could fight and always triumph, as well as his memories of battles won. Hirata counted himself as lucky.