Shinjū

Chapter 1

Yoriki Sano Ichirō, Edo’s newest senior police commander, made his way slowly on horseback across Nihonbashi Bridge. Early on this sunny, clear winter morning, throngs of people streamed around him: porters carrying baskets of vegetables to and from market; water vendors with buckets suspended from poles on their shoulders; shoppers and tradesmen bent low under the packages on their backs. The planks thundered with the steps of wood-soled feet; the air was bright with shouts, laughter, and chatter. Even the hallmarks of Sano’s samurai status couldn’t speed his passage. His mount, a bay mare, merely raised him above the bobbing heads. The two swords he wore-one a long, curved saber, the other a shorter dirk elicited no more than an occasional mumbled “A thousand pardons, honorable master.”

But Sano enjoyed his leisurely progress, and his freedom. He’d escaped from the tedium that had marked his first month as a yoriki. A former tutor and history scholar, he’d quickly found the administration of his small section of the police department far less satisfying than teaching young boys and studying ancient texts. He missed his old profession; the thought of never again chasing down a lost or obscure fact left a sad, empty ache at the center of his spirit. Still, although family circumstances and connections, rather than choice or talent, had thrown him into the unfamiliar world of law enforcement, he’d sworn to make the best of the situation.

Today he had decided to explore his new domain more fully than he could by sitting in his office and affixing his seal to his staff’s reports. Exhilarated, he peered over the bridge’s railings at the panorama of Edo.

The wide canal, lined with whitewashed warehouses, was jammed with barges and fishing boats. Smoke from countless charcoal braziers and stoves formed a haze over the low tiled and thatched rooftops that extended over the plain in all directions. Through it he could see Edo Castle perched on its hill at the end of the canal. There Ieyasu, first of the Tokugawa shoguns, had established the seat of his military dictatorship seventy-four years ago, fifteen years after defeating his rival warlords in the Battle of Sekigahara. The upturned eaves of the keep’s many roofs made it look like a pyramid of white birds ready to take flight: a fitting symbol of the peace that had followed that battle, the longest peace Japan had known in five centuries. Beyond the castle, the western hills were a soft shadow, only slightly less blue than the sky. Mount Fuji ’s distant snow-capped cone rose above them. Temple bells tolled faintly, adding to the panoply of sounds.

At the foot of the bridge, Sano passed the noisy, malodorous fish market. He edged his horse through the narrow winding streets of Nihonbashi, the peasants’ and merchants’ quarter named after the bridge. In the open wooden storefronts of one street, sake sellers bartered with their customers. Around the next corner, men labored over steaming vats in a row of dyers’ shops. Mud and refuse squished under the horses’ hooves and pedestrians’ shoes. Sano turned another corner.

And emerged into a vast open space where last night’s fire had leveled three entire blocks. The charred remains of perhaps fifty houses-ash, blackened rafters and beams, soaked debris, fallen roof tiles-littered the ground. The bitter smell of burnt cypress wood hung in the air. Forlorn residents picked their way through the mess, hunting for salvageable items.

“Aiiya,” an old woman keened. “My home, all my things, gone! Oh, what will I do?” Others took up her cry.

Sano sighed and shook his head. Thirty-two years ago-two years before his birth-the Great Fire had destroyed most of the city and taken a hundred thousand lives. And still the “blossoms of Edo,” as the fires were known, bloomed almost every week among the wooden buildings where a strong wind could quickly fan a single spark into a ferocious blaze. From their rickety wooden towers high above the rooftops, the firewatchers rang bells at the first sight of a flame. Edo ’s citizens slept uneasily, listening for the alarm. Most fires were accidents, caused by innocent mistakes such as a lamp placed too near a paper screen, but arson wasn’t uncommon.

He’d come to learn whether this fire had resulted from arson. But one look at the ruins told him he could not expect to find evidence. He would have to rely on witnesses’ stories. Dismounting, he approached a man who was dragging an iron chest from the rubble.

“Did you see the fire start?” he called.

He never heard the answer. Just then, running footsteps and cries of “Stop, stop!” sounded behind him. Sano turned. A thin man dressed in rags streaked past, panting and sobbing. A pack of ruffians brandishing clubs stampeded after him. The man’s bare feet slipped in the mud, and he went sprawling about ten paces from Sano. Immediately the pursuers set upon their quarry, clubs flailing.

“You’ll die for this, you miserable animal!” one of them shouted.

The ragged man’s sobs turned to screams of pain and terror as he threw up his arms to shield his head from the blows.

Sano hurried over and grabbed the arm of one of the attackers.

“Stop, you’ll kill him! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Who’s asking?”

At the sound of the gruff voice beside him, Sano turned. A burly man with small, mean eyes stood at his elbow. He wore a short kimono over cotton leggings; his cropped hair and the single short sword fastened at the waist of his gray cloak marked him as a samurai of low rank. Then Sano caught sight of the object in the man’s right hand, a strong steel wand with two curved prongs above the hilt for catching the blade of an attacker’s sword. It was a jitte, a parrying weapon, standard equipment of the doshin, the law enforcement officers who patrolled the city and maintained order.

Comprehension flashed through Sano. This man was one of his hundred-odd subordinates, one of the long line of bowed heads he’d passed during the formal ceremony at which his staff was presented to him. The armed ruffians, who had ceased torturing their victim to look at him, were the doshin’s civilian assistants. Privately employed by their superior-and responsible only to him-they performed the dirty work of policing, such as capturing criminals, under his direction. Now three of them moved menacingly in on Sano.

“Who are you?” the doshin demanded again.

Sano said, “I am Yoriki Sano Ichirō. Now explain to me why your men are beating this citizen.”

Although he kept his voice calm and stern, his heartbeat quickened. He’d had little chance to exercise his new authority.

The doshin’s mouth gaped. He passed a hand over his jutting jaw in obvious confusion. Then he bowed obsequiously.

“Yoriki Sano-san,” he muttered. “Didn’t recognize you.”

He jerked his head at his assistants, who formed a hasty line and bowed, hands on their knees. “My sincerest apologies.”

His sullen tone belied the respectful words. Sano could sense the doshin’s veiled contempt. The mean little eyes narrowed still more as they traveled over his freshly shaved crown and his oiled hair drawn into a neat looped knot at the back. They registered disgust at the sight of Sano’s best outer garment, the black-and-brown-striped haori, and his new black hakama, the wide trousers he wore beneath it. Sano bristled at such open rudeness, but he could understand the man’s contempt. The reputation of yoriki for vanity was well known. He himself cared little for fashion, but his superior, Magistrate Ogyu, had stressed the importance of proper dress and appearance.

“Your apologies are accepted,” Sano said, deciding to address the matter at hand instead of making an issue over his subordinate’s manners. “Now answer my question: what has this man done for which you must punish him?”

Now Sano could see bewilderment on the doshin’s face. Yoriki seldom ventured into the streets, preferring to keep their distance from the rough-and-tumble of everyday police work. They appeared only for very serious incidents, and then as field commanders dressed in full armor with helmet and lance. Sano supposed he was the first to ever investigate a common fire.

“He did this,” the doshin answered, gesturing at the ruins. “Set the fire. Killed fifteen people.” He spat at the man, who still lay facedown in the mud, shoulders trembling with muffled sobs.

“How do you know?”

The doshin’s prominent jaw thrust out even further, in anger and resentment. “The townspeople saw a man fleeing the street just after the fire started, Yoriki Sano-san. And he confessed.”

Sano walked past the assistants and over to the fallen man. “It’s all right,” he said gently. “Get up now.”

Clumsily the man hunched at the waist, then rose to his knees. Sitting back on his heels, he wiped the mud from his face. Then, to Sano’s surprise, his mouth opened in a wide, toothless smile.

“Yes, master.” His head bobbed, and his eyes twinkled. Despite the wrinkles that creased his cheeks and forehead, he looked as innocent as a child.

“What’s your name?” Sano asked.

“Yes, master.”

Sano repeated the question. Getting the same response, he tried another. “Where do you live?”

“Yes, master.”

“Did you start the fire?” Sano asked, beginning to understand.

“Yes, master, yes master!” Then, seeing Sano’s frown, the man lost his smile. He got to his feet, but fell back as the doshin’s assistants surrounded him again. “No hurt, master!” he pleaded.

“No one will harm you.” Furious, Sano turned to the doshin. “This man is a simpleton. He doesn’t understand you, or what he’s saying. You cannot accept his confession.”

The doshin’s face flushed, and he squared his shoulders. The jitte shook in his clenched fist. “I asked him if he started the fire. He said yes. How was I to know he was an idiot?”

A voice from the swelling crowd of spectators cried, “If you’d taken the time to talk to him, you would have found out!” Someone else shouted, “He’s just a harmless old beggar!” Mutters of agreement followed.

“Shut up!” The doshin turned on the crowd, and the mutters faded. Then he faced Sano. “Arson is a serious crime,” he said with exaggerated patience and not a little self-righteousness. “Someone must pay.”

For a moment, Sano was too appalled to speak. This law officer-and many others, if the rumors he’d heard were correct-cared more about finding a scapegoat than about uncovering the truth. He wanted to chastise the man for shirking his duty. Then he saw the doshins free hand stray toward the short sword. He knew that only his rank kept the man from challenging him on the spot. He’d made the doshin lose face before the assistants and the townspeople. And, on his first day in the field, he had made an enemy.

To make peace, he contented himself with saying, “Then we must find the real arsonist. You and your men and I will question the witnesses.”

Sano watched the doshin and his men move off to mingle with the crowd. A curious elation came over him. He’d corrected an injustice and probably saved a man’s life. For the first time, he realized that being a yoriki offered many opportunities for seeking the truth, and just as many rewards for finding it. More, perhaps, than his work as a scholar, poring over old documents. But he wondered uneasily how many more enemies he would make.

It was early afternoon by the time Sano returned to the administrative district, located in Hibiya, southeast of Edo Castle. There the city’s high officials had their office-mansions, where they both lived and worked. Messengers bearing rolled documents passed Sano as he rode along the narrow lanes between earthen walls that shielded the tile-roofed, half-timbered houses. Dignitaries dressed in bright, flowing silk garments walked in pairs or groups; fragments of conversation dealing with affairs of state and the latest political gossip reached Sano’s ears. Servants scurried in and out of the gates, carrying trays stacked high with lacquer lunchboxes. The thought of those delicacies made Sano regret the greasy noodles he’d eaten at a food stall on his way back. But the arson investigation had taken longer than he’d anticipated, and the quick though unpleasant meal he’d had would let him return to his other duties without further delay. Turning the corner, he headed toward police headquarters.

“Yoriki Sano-san!” A breathless messenger ran up to him, ducking in a hasty bow. “Please, sir, Magistrate Ogyu would like to see you at once. In the Court of Justice, sir.” He raised questioning eyes for Sano’s response.

“Very well. You’re dismissed.”

A summons from the magistrate could not go ignored. Sano changed course.

Magistrate Ogyu’s mansion was one of the largest in the district. At the roofed portals of its gate, Sano identified himself to a pair of guards dressed in leather armor and headgear. He left his horse with them, then entered the mansion’s grounds and threaded his way through a small crowd of townspeople gathered in the courtyard. Some were waiting to bring their disputes before the magistrate; others, accompanied by doshin and with their hands bound by ropes, were obviously prisoners awaiting trial.

Sano paused at the main entrance of the long, low building. Barred wooden lattices covered the windows. The roof’s projecting eaves cast deep shadows over the veranda. Seeing the mansion for the first time, he had imagined its dark, brooding appearance symbolic of the often harsh sentences pronounced inside. The surrounding garden, with its unlit stone lanterns and skeletal winter trees, reminded him of a graveyard. Shaking off his fancy, he climbed the wooden steps. At a nod from the two guards stationed there, he opened the massive carved door.

“Blacksmith Goro.” Magistrate Ogyu’s reedy voice echoed across the long hall as Sano paused in the entry way. “I have considered all the evidence brought before me regarding the crime with which you are charged.”

Sano went to wait at the back of the hall with the samurai courtroom attendants. At the far end, Magistrate Ogyu knelt upon the dais. A thin, stoop-shouldered old man, he seemed lost in his voluminous red and black silk robes. Lamps on either side of his black lacquer desk lit him like a figure on stage. The rest of the room was dim; sunlight filtering through the latticed rice-paper windows provided the only other illumination. Directly before the dais was the shirasu, an area of floor covered with white sand, symbol of truth. There the accused man, bound at wrists and ankles, knelt on a mat. Two doshin knelt on either side of the shirasu. A small audience-witnesses, the accused’s family, and the headman of his neighborhood-formed a row toward the back of the hall.

“That evidence indicates beyond all doubt that you are guilty of the murder of your father-in-law,” Ogyu continued.

“No!” The scream burst from the accused man. He writhed on the mat, straining at his bonds.

Several of the spectators cried out. A woman collapsed weeping onto the floor.

Ogyu raised his voice above the din, saying, “I sentence you to death. So that they may share in your disgrace, your family is to be banished from the province.” He nodded to the doshin, who leaped up and bore the screaming, struggling prisoner out the back door. The attendants hurried forward and escorted the spectators from the room, one dragging the weeping woman by her armpits. Then Ogyu called, “Sano Ichirō. Come forward.”

Sano walked to the front of the room and knelt behind the shirasu, a little shaken. Ogyu had just sentenced a man to death and his family to exile, but he was as calm as could be. Sano reminded himself that Ogyu had served as one of Edo ’s two magistrates for thirty years. He’d handled so many trials that he had grown inured to sights that would disturb others. He bowed deeply to Ogyu and said, “How may I serve you, Honorable Magistrate?”

Ogyu’s pale, spidery hands toyed with his magisterial seal, an oblong chunk of alabaster that bore the characters of his name and rank. His pinched face with its drooping eyelids gleamed sallow and sickly in the flickering lamplight, and his age-spotted bald pate looked like a diseased melon.

“Arson is a serious crime,” Ogyu murmured, studying the seal with elaborate concern. He paused, then added, “Though not an uncommon one.”

“Yes, Honorable Magistrate,” Sano answered, wondering why Ogyu had summoned him. Surely not to exchange trivialities. But Ogyu, like many other members of the refined upper classes, never came directly to the point. Kneeling in the Court of Justice, Sano felt as though he-or rather his powers of comprehension- were on trial.

“Such important but distasteful matters are best left to the devices of the lower classes. And one’s actions have a most unfortunate way of reflecting unfavorably on others.” Ogyu turned his head to gaze toward the north windows, in the direction of the castle.

Then Sano understood. Spies and informers abounded in Edo; they were part of an intelligence network that helped the shogun maintain the Tokugawas’ unchallenged control over the nation. Someone had undoubtedly begun reporting to Ogyu on Sano’s activities the day he assumed his position as yoriki. That someone must have been in the crowd at the site of the fire. And Ogyu had just told him that for a man of his rank to do doshin’s work shamed the entire government, all the way up to the shogun. Although he didn’t want to contradict his superior, Sano felt compelled to defend himself.

“Honorable Magistrate, the doshin and his men would have arrested an innocent man if I hadn’t stopped them,” he said. “By questioning the witnesses, we got a description of the real arsonist, and-”

Ogyu lifted a finger, silencing Sano. The gesture came as close to an open rebuke as Sano had ever seen him make. But instead of speaking about the investigation, Ogyu changed the subject. “I had the privilege of taking tea with Katsuragawa Shundai yesterday.”

The syllables of the name fell over Sano like an iron blanket. All further protests died on his lips. Katsuragawa Shundai was his patron, the man who had gotten him this position.

During the civil wars of the last century, Sano’s great-grandfather, a vassal in the service of Lord Kū, had saved the life of a fellow soldier, head of the Katsuragawa family. The Katsuragawa fortunes had risen while the Sanos’ declined, but that act had bound the two families inextricably. Sano remembered the day when his father had called in that old debt…

His father had taken him to see Katsuragawa Shundai at the city treasury. Kneeling in Katsuragawa’s sumptuous office, they had accepted bowls of tea.

“I do not have much longer to live, Katsuragawa-san,” his father said. “That is why I must request your assistance in the matter of my son. I have no fortune to leave him, and he is a mere tutor with no prospects and no special talents. But surely, with your influence…?”

Katsuragawa did not reply at once to the unspoken question. He lit his pipe, then cast a measuring glance at Sano. Finally he said, “I will see what I can do.”

Sano kept his eyes on his bowl. He hoped that Katsuragawa would do nothing, because he knew that his duty to his father required that he accept whatever was offered. However, he could live with the idea of benefiting from Katsuragawa’s patronage. In peacetime, samurai no longer made their fortunes by the sword. Their hope for success lay in getting a position in the government bureaucracy, through some combination of ability and connections. But he hated the thought of leaving his beloved profession for another that would suit him as little as he suited it.

Ogyu’s voice recalled Sano to the present. “I trust that we understand each other?”

“Yes, Honorable Magistrate,” Sano said heavily. Ogyu had reminded him of his obligation to his father and to Katsuragawa. To fulfill that obligation, he’d agreed to serve as a senior police commander when Ogyu, at Katsuragawa’s request, had offered him the post. It left no room for argument, independent action, or unconventional behavior. Duty, loyalty, and filial piety were the cardinal principles of Bushido-the Way of the Warrior-the strict code that governed a samurai’s conduct. His honor, highest and most important of all virtues, depended on his adherence to the code. And the military government Sano served valued conformity and obedience more than it did the pursuit of truth and justice, which were, by comparison, fluid and negotiable. Sano must defer to his superior’s desires at the expense of his own. He also felt deeply disgraced by Ogyu’s implied criticism. Never again would he venture out of the administrative district to investigate firsthand the cases that crossed his desk. From now on, those cases would remain words on paper. He bowed again, expecting Ogyu to dismiss him.

But Ogyu had not finished. “A small matter has come to my attention,” he said, “one that must be handled with the utmost discretion. You will do exactly as I say.”

His uncharacteristic directness piqued Sano’s curiosity.

“A fisherman pulled two bodies, a man and a woman, from the river this morning,” Ogyu continued. His small mouth pursed in disgust. “A shinjū.”

Sano’s curiosity grew. Double love suicides were almost as common as, and surely even more distasteful than, the fires that Ogyu had told him to leave to the doshin. Often lovers who couldn’t marry due to family opposition chose to die together in the hope that they might spend eternity in the Buddhist paradise. Why did Ogyu want to involve him in a petty shinjū?

Ogyu gave him the answer to his unspoken question. “This was found on the woman’s body,” he said, taking a folded letter from his desk and offering it to Sano.

Rising, Sano crossed the shirasu and accepted the letter. The delicate rice paper crackled in his hands as he opened it and read the characters inked in a fine feminine hand.

Farewell to this world and to the night farewell

We who walk the path that leads to death-”

To what should it be compared?

To the frost by the road that leads to the graveyard

Vanishing with each step we take:

How sad is this dream of a dream!

Noriyoshi (artist) Niu Yukiko

Sano recognized the passage from a popular Kabuki play about a pair of doomed lovers. This was their final song before their death. Now he knew why Ogyu wanted him to handle the matter with discretion. The man, Noriyoshi, was a peasant, as the lack of a surname and the appendage of his profession made clear. A nobody. But Yukiko was daughter to Niu Masamune, lord of Satsuma and Osumi Provinces and one of the wealthiest, most powerful daimyo.

“I can see that you appreciate the delicacy of this situation,” Ogyu said. “Since the cause of death is obvious, you will dispense with the matter as quickly and quietly as possible. You will have Niu Yukiko’s body returned to her family, and inform your staff that anyone who publicizes her name or the circumstances of her death will meet with the most severe punishment.

“The man Noriyoshi, however… ” Ogyu picked up a brush and dipped it into his inkwell. “Noriyoshi shall suffer the full penalty dictated by the laws of the land. That will be all, Yoriki Sano.”

Conflicting emotions warred within Sano. Ogyu wanted him to close the case without investigation. To keep Yukiko’s identity confidential, and to disgrace Noriyoshi’s family by exposing his corpse in public-customary treatment for love suicides. But Ogyu’s overemphasis on discretion aroused his suspicion. Every instinct told him to probe for the truth about the shinjū. But he had made a pledge to behave correctly and play by the rules.

“Yes, Honorable Magistrate,” he said, bowing. “I obey.”

Police headquarters occupied a site in the southernmost corner of the administrative district, far from the office-mansions and as remote from the castle as possible. According to the tenets of the Shinto religion, any contact with death conferred a ritual impurity, a spiritual pollution. Even the police’s indirect administration of executions made other officials shun them. The appearance of their headquarters reflected this isolation: completely surrounded by a high wall, with not even its rooftops visible from the street.

Sano gained admittance from the guards stationed at the gate and turned his horse over to a stableboy. Crossing a yard lined with doshin barracks, he entered the rambling wooden main building. He walked through the reception room, a large, open space broken by square pillars. There chaos reigned. Four clerks seated at desks on a raised platform in the room’s center dispatched messengers and dealt with the many visitors lined up before them. Doshin waited to sign on or off duty, or to give their reports. Servants streamed through the side entrances, bearing tea trays to and from the inner rooms where the yoriki had their private offices. Muted daylight came in through the windows, falling in shafts through the tobacco smoke from many pipes. The sound level remained at a constant civilized hum with only an occasional raised voice. But Sano found the inner reception room quiet, empty except for two men. Both wore formal dress-full, flowing silk trousers and wide-shouldered surcoats belted with wide sashes-of the most fashionable cut and pattern. The scent of wintergreen oil emanated from their meticulously arranged hair. They were the epitome of the proud, style-conscious yoriki.

“Yamaga-san. Hayashi-san.” Sano bowed. “Good day.”

Yamaga, the taller and elder, inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. Face radiating hostility, he did not reply to Sano’s greeting. Hayashi, a man of Sano’s age, twisted his thin lips in a sarcastic smile.

“Good day, newcomer,” he said. “I trust that your work goes well with you. Or at least as well as could be expected, for one not born to the responsibility.” His mocking air made the solicitous words an insult.

Saddened, Sano watched them go. He’d seen at once that he would not easily make friends with them or his forty-seven other colleagues. Unlike himself, they were true yoriki who had inherited their positions from their fathers. That an unqualified outsider could slip so easily into their ranks was an affront to their family and professional pride. Now their chill disapproval followed him as he walked down the long corridor and entered his own suite of offices, nodding a greeting to the clerks under his supervision.

When Sano slid open the door to his private office, he found another source of unhappiness awaiting him. Hamada Tsunehiko, his sixteen-year-old personal secretary, lolled on the mats near the charcoal brazier that heated the room, reading an illustrated storybook. The reports that Sano had given him to file lay disregarded upon his desk. His plump body strained the seams of a black cotton kimono patterned in white swirls and bordered with red checks. His shaved crown made him look less like a grown samurai than an enormous infant. When he saw Sano, his round, pudgy face took on an almost laughable expression of horror.

“Yoriki Sano-san!” he cried. “You’re back!” Hastily he scrambled to his knees and bowed, first tucking the book out of sight beneath his buttocks. “I await your orders!”

Sano gazed at Tsunehiko with exasperated affection. The secretary’s father, a powerful bureaucrat who wanted his idle, not-very-bright son to have an occupation, had prevailed upon Ogyu to find work for Tsunehiko. Ogyu had assigned him to Sano’s office. So far he had proven himself lazy and incapable of getting even the simplest tasks right on the first try. He also breathed loud and hard through his chronically plugged nostrils, a further irritation. Still, Sano found it impossible to dislike Tsunehiko. The boy was cheerful, good-natured-and just as out of place as Sano felt.

“All right, Tsunehiko,” Sano said. “Please take this report.” He knelt before his desk while Tsunehiko took paper and writing supplies from the cabinet. After Tsunehiko had ground the ink and settled himself at his own smaller desk, Sano began. “The sixteenth day of the twelfth month, Genroku year one,” he dictated. “Regarding the matter of the suicides of artist Noriyoshi and Lady Niu Yukiko-”

He paused when Tsunehiko gasped in dismay at the two characters he’d written, then crumpled the paper. A mistake, already: Tsunehiko’s skills at calligraphy and taking dictation were minimal. Sano would have preferred to write the reports himself, but he must conform to the rules, even in so small a matter as using the incompetent secretary assigned to him. Just as he must issue a report in accordance with Magistrate Ogyu’s orders, though it ran counter to his own instincts. Besides, he didn’t want to hurt the boy’s feelings. He waited for Tsunehiko to take a fresh sheet of paper from the cabinet. Then, together they slowly and tediously completed the report to the accompaniment of Tsunehiko’s labored breathing. Sano read over the fourth and final draft, saw to his relief that it contained no errors, and affixed his seal to it.

“Take this to the chief clerk and have him convey the orders to the departments involved,” he told Tsunehiko.

“Yes, Yoriki Sano-san!” Tsunehiko took the report, rolled it, and tied a silk ribbon around it. Still breathing hard, he rose and slid open the door.

Laughter sounded in the corridor outside. Yamaga and Hayashi swished past.

“We’ll cut a swath through Yoshiwara tonight,” Sano heard Yamaga say. “The women there will satisfy our every desire.”

Hayashi replied, “Then let us not delay!”

Their laughter rang out again as they disappeared. Phrases of lewd conversation drifted back toward Sano: “… voluptuous buttocks… fragrant loins… ” All at once a picture of the future flashed before him. He saw what would happen if he followed the path that Ogyu had laid out for him. His principles would lose their meaning for him. He would end up like Yamaga and Hayashi, who cared more about fashion and tradition than for their work. He would let his minions run his department while he left his post early to sport with prostitutes in the pleasure quarter. He would sacrifice truth for security, justice for the sake of comfort.

“Wait!” he ordered Tsunehiko.

Snatching the report from his surprised secretary’s hand, he tore it in two. Quickly he wrote another report classifying Noriyoshi’s and Yukiko’s deaths as suspicious and requiring further investigation. This he gave to Tsunehiko. Then he strode from the room. He didn’t want to coast along in his position, reaping the certain rewards that unquestioning obedience would bring. Instead he wanted to feel the excitement of pursuing the truth-as he had when he’d been a scholar, then again during the arson investigation-and the elation of knowing that by finding it, he had done some good. Somehow he must reconcile personal desire with the Way of the Warrior and all its obligations to family and master. He must discover the truth about the shinjū.