When he reached the Imperial Palace, he walked east on Imadegawa Avenue to a rear gate used by tradesmen. At a guardhouse, a sentry received deliveries. This, according to Hoshina, was where Lady Jokyōden’s mysterious visitor brought messages every day at this time. Not that Yanagisawa trusted Hoshina’s word. Not that he believed he would actually see the elusive young man known only as Hiro, who probably had nothing to do with the murders or conspiracy even if he existed. But the visitor represented one of two clues that Yanagisawa had and Sano didn’t.
Yanagisawa strolled, mingling with other pedestrians while covertly watching the gate. Porters delivered loads of charcoal and produce. Across the street from the palace, Yanagisawa went to a tiny restaurant that offered a good view. He sat on the raised wooden floor, as far from the other customers as possible; they were all filthy laborers who might have fleas. A toothless old woman hobbled over to wait on him.
“A bowl of noodles and some tea,” Yanagisawa said without taking his gaze off the palace gate.
More porters brought more goods to the imperial compound. Soon Yanagisawa’s meal came. The tea tasted like weeds in stagnant water; the noodles were mushy. How could anyone cat such slop? Yanagisawa pretended to sip his tea while time dragged, other diners came and went, and more provisions arrived at the palace. The steam and food odors from the restaurant kitchen made him hot and queasy. Then, just when he was ready to give up hope, a lone figure approached the gate.
It was a dapper young man dressed in a brown-and-black checked kimono, his hair in a topknot. As Hoshina had said, he looked to be a member of the lower merchant class. He carried a cylindrical red scroll case. Yanagisawa leaned forward for a better look. The man stopped at the guardhouse and spoke to the sentry. Yanagisawa, who had excellent vision and had mastered the art of lipreading, easily discerned the man’s words: I have a message for the Honorable Lady Jokyōden.
The gate opened, and a noblewoman of elegant, dignified appearance came out. She took the scroll case, bowed, and went back inside the palace. The gate closed.
Yanagisawa could hardly contain his elation. Hoshina hadn’t lied to him about this, at least. He concentrated on the messenger, who leaned against the palace wall, awaiting Jokyōden’s reply. Who was he? A secret lover? Maybe Jokyōden had killed Left Minister Konoe because he’d discovered the affair and intended to tell her husband. The man had an intelligent expression, but his face was homely, with protruding teeth. Yanagisawa hoped that the mysterious visits had nothing to do with love and everything to do with the conspiracy to overthrow the Tokugawa regime.
After a short while, the gate opened again. The woman handed the scroll case back to the messenger, who bowed his thanks. Yanagisawa resisted the impulse to rush across the street, arrest the man, and confiscate the message. If it turned out to have nothing to do with the murder case, he would look a worse fool than he did already.
The messenger trotted down the street. Yanagisawa rose to follow, but the toothless crone who’d served his meal hurried over to him. “You owe five zeni!” she screeched, blocking his way.
Yanagisawa stared blankly at her. He never carried money; his staff always paid his expenses. Now the crone’s shrieks were attracting an audience. He saw the back of Lady Jokyōden’s messenger rapidly moving away. Yanagisawa drew his sword and waved it at the woman. “I’m not paying for that garbage. Get out of my way!”
The woman obeyed, but shouted curses at him as he ran down Imadegawa Avenue. His quarry ducked into a side street. Dodging a peddler laden with baskets, Yanagisawa followed. The messenger entered a maze of alleys where hanging laundry bridged the narrow gap between balconies. His route zigzagged, avoiding main streets. He constantly looked sideways and backward. Was he carrying orders from Jokyōden to the outlaws? Would he lead the way to their hiding place?
As he threaded between food stalls around a shrine, chasing the messenger, Yanagisawa’s blood raced with an intoxicating energy. Anonymous, unhampered by a huge entourage or formal garb, he felt as swift and invisible as the wind. Anyone else would have lost the messenger by now, but Yanagisawa had no trouble keeping up. With the same intuition that helped him predict other men’s moves in the game of politics, he anticipated the abrupt turns that had foiled the palace guards who had tried to follow the messenger. He’d always had a good sense of direction; he could picture the route superimposed on a map of Miyako. They were in the main commercial district. Wherever he ended up, he could guide troops there to arrest the rebels. In this secret pursuit, he unexpectedly achieved the heightened awareness sought by devotees of Bushido. The samurai spirit in him expanded, and the search for clues seemed more gratifying than sabotaging a rival.
The messenger ducked into a passage barely wide enough for three men to walk abreast. Vertical signs protruded from shops. Many bore crests featuring the scales used for weighing gold: This was a district of bankers. Merchants strolled, accompanied by samurai bodyguards and clerks carrying ledgers and cash boxes. Suddenly the messenger vanished into a shop. Puzzled, Yanagisawa halted. This didn’t look like a place where outlaws would gather, or hide illegal weapons. Jokyōden’s messenger must have spotted him and run through the shop to evade him.
Yanagisawa hurried forward. The shop’s sign read “Daikoku Bank”-named after the god of fortune. Yanagisawa peered into the narrow storefront. He heard the jingle of coins, rapid clicks, and loud conversation as clerks counted money, totaled sums on the beads of their soroban, and negotiated with customers. The clerks wore the same brown-and-black uniform that Yanagisawa had followed from the Imperial Palace. With relief he spied his quarry showing the scroll case to the elderly proprietor, who sat on a platform, weighing gold ingots on a balance. Proprietor and messenger walked through a doorway leading to the back room, with the scroll. Yanagisawa sped around the block and down the alley behind the shop. He had to find out what the scroll said and what the bank had to do with Lady Jokyōden.
The alley was lined with malodorous privies; stray dogs rooted in fetid garbage containers. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Yanagisawa edged up to the back window of the bank. Inside he saw a dim office furnished with shelves and iron chests. The messenger and proprietor were seated on the floor.
Opening the scroll case, the messenger removed a document, spread it on a table, and scanned columns of fine calligraphy. “She’s pleased with our service.”
“She should be,” the proprietor said. “By paying better exchange rates than other shops, we’ve attracted more customers. Our investments in local businesses have paid an excellent return. We’ve been hired to handle the Miyako finances of the great Matsui merchant clan, for a large commission. We store the rice stipends of Lord Kii’s retainers in our warehouse, and we’ll collect large fees for converting the rice to cash. Profits are up ten percent over last year. By next year, we’ll be ready to open a branch in Osaka.”
Yanagisawa wasn’t interested in the bank’s performance or the money-grubbing ambitions of its owner. The smell in the alley nauseated him. He strained to read the scroll, but the writing was small and the distance too great.
“What are her orders?” the proprietor asked.
Now we’re getting somewhere, Yanagisawa thought. Perhaps the bank served as an intermediary between Jokyōden and the rebels. He waited to hear her plans for a siege of Miyako.
The messenger read aloud from the scroll, “ ‘Buy two hundred loads of lumber. Buy a thousand loads of coal, two thousand of soybeans, and three thousand vats of oil.’