He could never make peace with Yoshisato. Yoshisato had died hating him.
Each sob tore a bleeding gash in Yanagisawa’s viscera. He didn’t care who saw. He cursed himself. If only he hadn’t gone to that banquet tonight, to socialize with his allies, to strengthen their political support. If only he’d persuaded Yoshisato to come with him! But Yoshisato had insisted on being left alone at night. If only Yanagisawa hadn’t let him be! How he wished he’d been here to protect Yoshisato!
The thought of his own culpability was too agonizing to bear. Yanagisawa also couldn’t bear to think that Yoshisato or his guards had carelessly left a lamp burning too close to a paper wall, that Yoshisato was a victim of a stupid accident.
Yanagisawa stood, glaring at the men in the crowd. “Who let this happen?”
No reply came. Yanagisawa smelled fear, as pungent as the smoke in the air. His sobs stopped as his instincts whispered that when a controversial person died violently, assassination was a likely cause. Yanagisawa wiped his eyes with his sleeve. His gaze skipped over face after face, then stopped at three people standing together by a bush.
Sano, with his bodyguard Marume and his son, Masahiro.
Yanagisawa beheld Sano as if through a scrim of leaping flames. He stalked toward the trio. Sano and Marume stepped forward, their expressions wary.
“What are you doing here?” Yanagisawa said, his voice thick with hatred.
“We came to help put out the fire,” Sano said, “but it was too late. I’m sorry.”
“How dare you pretend you’re sorry Yoshisato is dead?” Yanagisawa didn’t give Sano time to answer. “What’s that in your hands?”
Looking down at the objects he held, Sano seemed surprised, as if he’d forgotten them. The crowd waited. The silence was so complete, Yanagisawa heard faint, distant shouts and the clacking of sticks from a brawl in the city.
“The fire was arson. I found these under a bush.” Sano held up a metal smoking basket, some rags, and a ceramic jar. “The jar and rags smell of kerosene. The arsonist must have left them behind.”
Yanagisawa was horrified by the thought of Yoshisato innocently sleeping while someone set his house on fire. He was so furious that he could hardly speak. “You can’t fool me! You brought them yourself. You were trying to take them away before anyone else could find them. You’re the arsonist!”
“I’m not. That’s ridiculous!” Sano looked stricken, confused.
“You didn’t want Yoshisato to be the next shogun. You tried to prove he wasn’t the shogun’s son, and you failed, so you killed him!”
“I didn’t set the fire. I’m not trying to fool you,” Sano said, angry now. “For once in your life, realize that everything bad that happens to you isn’t my fault! I didn’t get here until after it was already burning.”
“That’s right,” Marume said angrily. “I was with him.”
“Shut up!” Yanagisawa was certain Sano was guilty. Sano had resorted to murder to thwart Yanagisawa’s quest for power, and Yoshisato was the casualty.
“The well was plugged,” Sano said. “The firemen suspected arson. I started an investigation. This is the evidence I found.”
“No more lies!” Yanagisawa snatched the basket, rags, and jar from Sano’s hands. He called to his troops, “Arrest him!” He said to Sano, “You got away with Yoritomo’s death. I won’t let you get away with Yoshisato’s!”
* * *
Sano was astounded by the sudden reversal of his position and Yanagisawa’s. A moment ago Yanagisawa had been his primary suspect in Tsuruhime’s murder. Now Sano was the suspect in Yoshisato’s. He’d been searching for proof that Yanagisawa was guilty. Now he’d been caught holding the evidence left by the arsonist. Sano realized how guilty he looked. He also realized that the crime he was accused of was much more serious than the one he believed Yanagisawa had committed.
Infecting the shogun’s daughter with smallpox was picayune compared to burning the shogun’s heir to death.
Sano’s past troubles were nothing compared to those he now faced.
As the troops advanced on Sano, he said to Yanagisawa, “You’re making a mistake. If you blame me for the fire, the real arsonist will go free!”
“I’ve got the real arsonist,” Yanagisawa said with vengeful satisfaction.
He really believed it, Sano was disturbed to see. As the troops seized Sano, an uproar rose from the crowd: Everyone was thrilled to see the feud between Sano and Yanagisawa finally culminate. Sano struggled, angrily resisting arrest.
“Let my father go!” Masahiro cried, throwing himself on the troops.
Marume rushed to defend Sano. So did Sano’s other men. None of them had brought their swords, which would have gotten in the way of putting out the fire. They wrestled the troops. Masahiro punched and kicked. Sano, caught in the middle, saw Yanagisawa’s troops brandishing swords.
“Go ahead, Sano-san!” Yanagisawa called, hysterical with grief and rage. “Fight. Give me an excuse to kill you and your son right now!”
“Stop!” Sano yelled. He ceased struggling. “I surrender!”
“No!” Masahiro protested.
Groans came from the crowd. Surrendering was the most disgraceful thing a samurai could do. Surrendering deeply shamed Sano. But he must surrender rather than fight a battle unarmed and see his son killed.
“Do as I say,” he ordered Masahiro, Marume, and his troops.
They reluctantly fell back.
“Go home,” Sano called to Masahiro as Yanagisawa’s troops dragged him away. “Tell your mother what happened. Tell her not to worry.” He said what he hoped was true and knew wasn’t: “Everything’s going to be all right.”
26
Yanagisawa’s troops locked Sano in a guard tower. He waited alone in the bare, stone-walled room. Rain began to clatter on the roof tiles. A chill in the air turned Sano’s sweat cold under the leather fire cape he still wore. He stood at the window and watched morning break over Edo.
Was this his last morning?
What would happen to his family?
He tried to think of how to get himself out of his predicament, but behind his stoic façade, his mind was a cyclone of desperation. All he could do was wait.
Finally, Yanagisawa’s troops escorted him uphill through the covered corridors. They marched him through lashing rain to the palace. In the reception chamber, the shogun knelt on the dais with Yanagisawa seated at his right. The four old men from the Council of Elders knelt in two grim, silent rows opposite one another on the upper level of the floor below the dais. Soldiers stood against the walls. The troops pushed Sano to his knees on the lower level of the floor. Drenched and shivering, he faced his superiors.
“There had, ahh, better be a good reason for calling a meeting at this early hour,” the shogun said.
“There is.” Yanagisawa’s voice was ragged from weeping, his bloodshot gaze as hard as if his tears had solidified into red-hot iron. “Sano will tell you what happened last night.”
Sano looked at the elders. They gazed at the floor; they already knew. Yanagisawa had designated Sano as the unfortunate messenger of the bad news that nobody else wanted to break to the shogun. Sano couldn’t resent the unfairness of it. Guilt weighed heavily upon him. He’d been Yoshisato’s detractor; he’d failed to rescue Yoshisato. The least Sano could do for Yoshisato was to report the fact of his death.
“There was a fire at the heir’s residence,” Sano said.
The shogun’s eyes widened with fright. “Yoshisato…?”
“I’m sorry, Your Excellency,” Sano said. “Yoshisato … didn’t survive.”
The shogun recoiled from Sano in horror. An ugly, satisfied smile appeared on Yanagisawa’s face.