The story that Kajikawa, the keeper of the castle, had told Sano seemed to amount to nothing. If Sano wanted dirt on Kira, he had to dig in other ground.
He located Kira’s three former subordinates and two pupils whom Kira had been instructing in etiquette up until the day before his murder. They were in the chamber where the shogun would hold his New Year banquet. The subordinates were samurai in their forties, each the type of conscientious man who kept the government running but would never rise into its upper ranks. They huddled together, arguing about some point of court procedure. The pupils were young officials from the shogun’s retinue, who would have some part in conducting the banquet. They stood about looking bored. Sano gathered the five men for a talk about Kira.
“What kind of person was he?” Sano asked.
The onus of answering fell upon a man named Mimura, the new master of ceremonies. Pale, thin, and anxious, he didn’t seem happy to be saddled with his role of elected spokesman or his predecessor’s duties.
“Kira-san was very dedicated to his job,” Mimura said. His companions nodded.
“How was Kira to work with?” Sano probed.
“He was strict about details.”
Sano gathered that no one here had liked Kira. “Did he take bribes?”
Mimura paused, torn between his duty to answer honestly and his reluctance to malign his dead superior. “They weren’t excessive.”
“Is that true of the bribes he took from you?” Sano asked the pupils. They assented, nervously. “Did he treat you well?”
Put on the spot, one of them echoed Mimura: “He was strict.”
Sano turned to Kira’s subordinates. “What happened between Kira and Lord Asano? Why did Lord Asano attack Kira?”
“We wouldn’t know,” Mimura said. “We weren’t there.”
“Had Kira ever done anything that could be considered corrupt?”
“Not as far as I know.”
The five men looked everywhere but at Sano or one another.
“This is serious,” Sano said. “Forty-seven lives depend on the supreme court, which will base its verdict on the results of my investigation.” The thoroughness of his investigation could determine how well the verdict was received, which in turn would determine his own fate. That made Sano impatient toward these tight-lipped witnesses. “If you know anything that could pertain to the vendetta, it’s your duty to tell me. Do you understand?”
The men nodded, but no one coughed up any more information.
Sano perceived something big hidden beneath their caution, like a whale swimming just below the surface of the ocean. He sensed that although each man knew it was there, each wasn’t sure whether the others did. And none wanted to name it.
* * *
After Hirata finished his talk with Toda the spy, he headed toward Kira’s mansion, to get information about Kira from what was left of his household.
Hirata crossed the Ryogoku Bridge. In the entertainment district on the other side, visitors braved the cold to patronize stalls that sold shogazake, red-bean cakes, and barley-sugar candy. Troupes of itinerant actors abounded. They came to town every New Year season; when they left, they would take the evil spirits of the old year with them. Dressed in colorful costumes and masks, they performed plays in exchange for a few coins. Hirata paused to watch a troupe whose leader wore the mask of a lion with snarling mouth and wild yellow mane. He juggled three red balls while his legs pranced beneath his tattered red robe. An audience clapped.
Suddenly Hirata felt his stalker’s aura, the mighty, terrifying pulse. The juggler in the lion mask tossed one of his balls high, high up. As Hirata looked around for the source of the aura, the ball landed in the juggler’s hand, ignited with a loud bang, and burst into orange flames. The audience cheered, thinking it was magic, part of the act. The juggler screamed. His other balls dropped. He hurled the fiery orb away from him. It soared above the audience and vanished in a puff of smoke.
Hirata stared, amazed.
The juggler’s sleeve had caught fire. His robe went up in flames. Shrieking, he ran and stumbled, a burning lion on a rampage.
Cries erupted from the audience. Hirata jumped from his horse, whipping off his coat as he ran. He beat the coat against the flames while the juggler rolled in the snow. After the fire was out, people flocked around the burned man. He sat up and ripped the mask off his head. He was a young fellow with bushy hair and a good-natured face. He held out his hands, looked at them, then patted his body. Everyone exclaimed, because he wasn’t burned at all. The fire had left not one charred patch of skin or fabric.
The juggler jumped up and bowed, happy to take credit for the best performance of his life, even if he didn’t know how it had happened. The audience showered him with coins.
The aura thrummed close behind Hirata, so powerfully that it felt like a roll of thunder hitting his back. He turned. A man came striding toward him and stopped within arm’s reach. He was a samurai, his shaved crown bare to the winter day. His aura stirred up a wind that keened around him and Hirata. He wore a dark brown coat and flowing black trousers over his tall, muscular physique. He had a square jaw and features so strong and regular that he could pose for a portrait of the ideal samurai. But his perfection was animated by a left eyebrow that was higher than the right. It and a twinkle in his eyes gave him a rakish appearance.
Hirata was rattled by the scene he’d just witnessed, and stunned to find himself face to face with his stalker. “Who are you?” He gestured toward the juggler, who was busy picking up coins. “Did you do that? Why have you been following me around? Who’s the priest with the birds? And the soldier I saw when I found the poem?” Hirata ran out of breath. He was shaking with anger and fear.
The samurai’s left eyebrow rose higher, in amusement. “My name is Tahara.” His voice had a curious quality that was at once smooth and rough, that brought to mind a stream flowing over jagged rocks. When Hirata started to repeat his questions, Tahara lifted his hand. Hirata felt the words die on his tongue, as if they were flies that Tahara had just swatted.
“We’ll talk when the time is right,” Tahara said.
His eyes were deep and dark and fathomless behind the twinkle. Hirata’s head ached from the pounding of Tahara’s aura against his mind. Then Tahara turned to walk away.
Hirata said, “Wait.” His voice felt thick and slow in his throat; its pitch sounded strangely low. People around him moved sluggishly, as if through water. Their voices echoed like bells rung under the sea. Tahara walked with an easy gait, but he flashed across space with the speed of lightning. His image flickered along the entertainment district and across the Ryogoku Bridge. Hirata watched the receding figure grow smaller until he could no longer see Tahara. The aura faded. Hirata blinked, breathed deeply, and looked around. The world had regained its usual noises and bustling motion.
“What’s going on?” he said. His voice felt and sounded normal. The ache in his head was gone. But so was the man who could have answered his question. Hirata would have to wait for the right time-whenever that was.
* * *
After he went to the palace kitchens to order the food for the shogun’s party, Masahiro couldn’t resist sneaking home to see Okaru.
He hurried through the castle, afraid that Yoritomo would point out his absence and get him in trouble. His heart beat fast with anticipation as he slipped through a back door of his family’s mansion. He didn’t want to run into anyone who would ask him why he was home early. He reached the private quarters unnoticed and tiptoed down the corridors.