Its narrow room, behind a dingy plank storefront, was a favorite haunt of mystic martial artists. The barber gave his customers the latest news, gleaned from the messengers, while he cut their hair. Those who lived in Edo came to drink and visit and to meet itinerant comrades who stopped by. The nature of the barbershop was known only to its select community. No one else who peeked in would realize that its few ordinary-looking patrons had enough combat skill to defeat an army. Outsiders would feel a need to leave the premises. The patrons liked their privacy, and they projected energy that repelled the uninitiated.
Hirata hesitated at the door. Seeking Magistrate Ueda’s attacker was his top priority, his duty to Sano, and he should be hunting for witnesses. He also had to help Sano bring the forty-seven ronin business to a safe conclusion. But he kept thinking about the samurai named Tahara, who’d said they would meet again. Hirata must prepare.
He entered the barbershop. It was warm from the hearth, the plank walls and ceiling darkened by soot and tobacco smoke. The barber sat alone, sharpening his razors. A seventy-year-old ronin named Iseki, he had a face as lined as a crumpled piece of paper, and he’d been a formidable mystic martial artist until, decades ago, an earthquake had brought a house down on him and crushed his sword arm. Hirata watched Iseki deftly handling a razor and sharpening stone. Iseki managed as well with one hand as most men did with two, but his fighting days were long over.
“Greetings, Hirata-san,” Iseki said. “What can I do for you?”
“I need some information.”
“Just ask.”
“Do you know a samurai named Tahara?”
Concern gathered the wrinkles on Iseki’s face together. “Not personally, but I’ve heard of him. He’s from Iga Province.” Iga Province had its own tradition of mystic martial arts. Its samurai had learned from the ninja, a cult of peasant warriors adept in stealth. “His kind stick to themselves. They don’t come around here. But I can tell you that I wouldn’t have wanted to go up against Tahara even when I was in my prime. Do you know him?”
“Not yet.” Everything Hirata had just heard increased his apprehension about his next meeting with Tahara.
“I’m surprised,” Iseki said. “I thought you would.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a disciple of Ozuno.”
The news disconcerted Hirata. Ozuno was his teacher and mentor, from whom he’d learned the mystic martial arts. “Ozuno never mentioned Tahara.”
But why not? Ozuno had introduced Hirata to his other disciples. The idea that the omission was deliberate bothered Hirata. Had Ozuno wanted to conceal Tahara’s existence from him? His dread worsened. That Tahara had Ozuno’s training plus a background in the dark arts made him a formidable adversary indeed.
“What else can you tell me about him?” Hirata asked.
“His clan are bodyguards and secret police for the daimyo of Iga Province. Tahara came to Edo about two years ago.”
For me, Hirata thought.
“Rumor says that the daimyo loans Tahara out to other people and Tahara is presently working for the Tokugawa regime,” Iseki said.
That would explain how Tahara had access to Edo Castle. “Does he have any friends in town? Specifically, a priest and a soldier?”
“The priest is Deguchi, from Ueno Temple. The soldier is Kitano Shigemasa. They’re both great fighters.” Iseki gave Hirata a curious glance. “Don’t you know them either? They’re two more of Ozuno’s disciples.”
“No,” Hirata said, “he never mentioned them.” It seemed that Ozuno had deliberately kept him from these three fellow disciples. Now they’d banded together against him.
“My condolences, by the way,” Iseki said.
“What for?”
Iseki looked grave, sympathetic, and puzzled all at once. “Ozuno’s death. Is that something else you didn’t know about?”
Hirata felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. “I didn’t.”
“Sorry to deliver the bad news.”
“How did Ozuno die? And where?” Hirata had known that Ozuno was ancient, but he’d seemed immortal.
“At a temple in Nara where he was staying. He went peacefully in his sleep.”
“When was this?” Hirata said.
“About two years ago.”
That was around the same time that Tahara had come after Hirata. It couldn’t be a coincidence. But what did Tahara and his friends want?
“If you hear anything about Tahara or his friends, will you let me know?” Hirata said.
“I will.” Iseki warned, “If I were you, I would avoid them at all cost.”
26
Sano went to the secluded compound inside Edo Castle where Chamberlain Yanagisawa lived. It had become Sano’s home when Yanagisawa was exiled, when Sano had been promoted to chamberlain. Sano had continued living there after Yanagisawa’s return, while he and Yanagisawa had served as co-chamberlains. But after Sano’s demotion, Yanagisawa had reclaimed his compound. Now Sano looked over the stone wall at the rooftops of the barracks where he’d once housed his retainers and the mansion in which his daughter had been born. It didn’t matter that the compound had originally belonged to Yanagisawa. The reminder of what Sano had lost enflamed his rage toward Yanagisawa.
The gate opened from inside, to let out a group of officials. Sano strode in without waiting for permission.
“Hey, you can’t go in there!” The sentries ran after Sano.
Sano marched into the mansion. By the time he reached the anteroom outside Yanagisawa’s office he had some twenty guards trailing him. They ordered him to stop, but they were obviously afraid to lay a hand on him. Perhaps they thought he’d gone mad. Sano swept past the crowd waiting to see the chamberlain. He threw open the door of the office he’d once called his own. There Yanagisawa sat on the dais in the study niche at a black lacquer desk. With him were Kato and Ihara, his cronies from the Council of Elders.
“Sano-san,” Yanagisawa said. Irritation failed to conceal his dismay that his foe had breached his security. “How did you get in here?”
“Never mind,” Sano said. “I want to talk to you.”
“Should we throw him out?” asked one of the guards crowded together in the doorway.
“No. I’ll hear what he has to say.” Yanagisawa raised his eyebrow at Sano’s expression. “You seem upset. But of course, your father-in-law was attacked last night. My condolences.”
His sympathy was so patently false that Sano wanted to throttle Yanagisawa. “How do you know about the attack?”
“Word has filtered up to Edo Castle,” Ihara said. He and Kato looked uncertain as to whether they wanted to watch the scene between Sano and Yanagisawa or leave before they got burned by the fireworks.
“My intelligence system is very efficient, as you’re aware,” Yanagisawa said smoothly.
Hatred threatened to overcome Sano’s self-control. “You didn’t need spies this time. I think you knew about the attack before it happened.”
Yanagisawa chuckled. “How? I’ve many talents, but I’m not a fortune-teller.”
“Drop the innocent act,” Sano said. “The answer is obvious.”
Both of Yanagisawa’s eyebrows rose, in mock astonishment. “Do you mean that you think I was behind the attack?”
“Were you?”
“That’s absurd.” Yanagisawa laughed, flashing his sharp, perfect teeth. “Why would I want to attack Magistrate Ueda?”
“Just answer the question.”
“If you insist.” Yanagisawa spoke with emphasis: “I am not responsible for the attack on Magistrate Ueda.” He looked Sano straight in the eye.
Sano couldn’t tell if he was lying. Yanagisawa was a consummate actor.
The sardonic humor vanished from Yanagisawa’s expression. The room turned cold with his hostility toward Sano. “Now you can answer my question: Why would I have wanted to attack Magistrate Ueda? That’s the very least you owe me after barging into my house.”