The Shogun's Daughter (32 page)

Masahiro stopped at the edge of the wreckage. Despair crept through him. What clues could possibly not have burned up?

Three oxcarts rolled through the gate. Laborers jumped out of the carts as the drivers halted near the wreckage. They began picking up burned debris and tossing it into the carts. Masahiro hurried toward them, to tell them to wait until he finished searching for clues. Then two men came into the compound. They were high-ranking officers from the Tokugawa army, with elaborate armor and helmets. Masahiro instinctively knew they wouldn’t be pleased to find him snooping around. He scampered to a grove of pine trees and hid.

“What are we looking for?” said one of the officers.

“Evidence to use at Sano’s trial,” said his comrade.

They looked at the ruins, then at each other. “It seems hopeless,” the first man said. He had a squat body and thick jowls. Masahiro recognized him. His name was Okubo. He and his comrade were Yanagisawa’s friends.

“I agree, but we’d better go through the motions of searching.” The other man was named Kitami. His armor hung on his bony figure like hide on a skeleton. The features under his helmet were gaunt, pinched. “If we don’t, somebody might say the investigation wasn’t thorough enough and raise a stink.”

Masahiro was horrified. That his father’s fate depended on a lazy investigation by men who worked for Yanagisawa!

The laborers heaped the oxcarts with debris. Kitami said, “Let them do the dirty work. We’ll see if they turn up anything interesting.”

He and Okubo watched the laborers. Masahiro knew that if he interfered, they would only laugh at him and throw him out. He waited helplessly, trembling with rage.

Okubo coughed. “Ugh, the smell is making me sick.”

“Me, too,” Kitami said. “Let’s go stand over there.”

They headed straight for Masahiro’s hiding place. He scuttled backward, farther into the trees. He crouched behind the biggest one.

“Hey, what’s that?” Okubo said.

Masahiro thought he’d been spotted, but the men weren’t looking at him. Okubo pointed at something caught on a stub of branch that protruded from a pine tree. Kitami pulled it off, held it up, and said, “It looks like a fire hood.”

Masahiro saw that it was indeed a fire hood, made of pale leather, shaped like a cone with a blunt tip. It had a hole cut out for the eyes and a flap that tied over the nose and mouth with ribbons.

“Whoever was wearing it must have got caught on the tree and it came off,” Okubo said.

“It’s a woman’s,” Kitami said. “See the flowers.” He touched the pink cherry blossoms embossed in the leather.

Masahiro pictured flames licking at the heir’s residence while a woman dressed in a leather cape and flowered hood ran away through the trees. He saw the branch snag the hood and tear it off her head. His heart raced with excitement. Here was evidence that someone other than his father—a woman—had set the fire.

“What are we going to do with this?” Kitami asked. “Bring it to Chamberlain Yanagisawa?”

Okubo said, “It doesn’t belong to Sano. No man would wear this.”

The men looked at each other. Masahiro read their shared thought: Yanagisawa only wanted evidence that incriminated Sano.

Kitami carried the hood to an oxcart that was almost full of debris. He threw the hood in. Masahiro watched, dismayed, as the laborers dumped burned planks on top of it. The driver cracked his whip at the oxen. They began hauling the cart away. Masahiro wanted to run after the cart, but Kitami and Okubo stood between him and the gate through which it disappeared. He clenched his fists and jittered, silently begging them to leave. He had to get that hood. It was proof of his father’s innocence.

32

SANO PACED THE
floor in his chamber. The wounds on his head and face hurt, and he was exhausted because he’d hardly slept last night, but he was too restless to lie down. The house felt like a cage that shrank with every passing hour. Whenever he left his chamber, his jailers followed him around. Now it was late afternoon. He hadn’t seen anybody else all day except the servants who brought his meals. He’d sent Detective Marume to find out how a fire could have been set in a heavily guarded section of the castle. He’d never felt so trapped, isolated, or powerless in his life.

Yoshisato’s murder was his biggest case, the one in which he had the most at stake, and he had to depend on his wife, his twelve-year-old son, and his chief retainer to solve it. He was alone with his hatred of the shogun, which preyed on him like wolf’s teeth gutting a live deer. His mutinous thoughts and desire for revenge multiplied. He dreaded his impending trial.

Marume came into the room, saying, “I tracked down the guards who were on duty around the heir’s residence last night. That’s three in the watchtower that overlooks the residence, three in the nearest checkpoint, and three on patrol. One of the watchtower guards is a friend of mine. He said they were called away from their posts.”

“Called away, how?” Sano was intrigued. “By whom?”

“A message from the captain of the night watch. It ordered them to come to a meeting at headquarters, which, as you know, is on the other side of the hill and two levels down.”

“When was this?”

“A little less than an hour before the fire started.”

“So nobody was watching the heir’s residence at the critical time,” Sano deduced. “Which explains how the arsonist entered the compound and left without getting caught.”

“Listen to this: When the men got to headquarters, there was no meeting.”

“The message was a ruse to get them out of the way, then. Who delivered it?”

“A page,” Marume said. “He brought it to their supervising lieutenant at the watchtower. My friend doesn’t know the boy’s name, never saw him before. He also told me the night watch captain says he never sent any message. Maybe the page was an imposter sent by the arsonist.”

“Or by the person the arsonist was working for. This crime required careful planning.”

Marume followed Sano’s line of thought. “It sounds too sophisticated for someone who does dirty work like setting fires. The arsonist must have been the hands. Who was the mind?”

“Lord Ienobu,” Sano said. “If not him, then Lady Nobuko.”

“Any word about her from your wife?”

Sano shook his head. “None from Masahiro yet, either. That was good work, Marume. Thank you.” Words were inadequate to express his appreciation for his retainer’s competent, loyal service.

“I hope to do even better,” Marume said, cheered by Sano’s praise. “I’ve launched a search for that page. Somebody must have seen him. Or seen something at the heir’s residence before the fire started. I’ve called in every favor. If there are any witnesses, I’ll dig them up.”

“That will take time. Yanagisawa isn’t going to wait for me to find evidence to clear my name. I need some sort of defense. Will your friend testify for me at my trial?”

The cheer drained from Marume’s face. “I asked him. He said no. The lieutenant ordered him and the other guards to keep quiet about what happened. They’ll get in trouble if it comes out that they left their posts. If they’d been there, they might have rescued Yoshisato. They could be put to death for letting him burn.”

“Whoever lured them away knew they would be afraid to talk,” Sano said, disappointed but not surprised. “Where’s the message they received?”

“It was verbal, not written.”

“And he was careful not to leave tracks.”

“Don’t lose hope,” Marume urged. “Our luck is bound to change.”

Without warning, soldiers invaded the room. The leader said to Sano, “It’s time for your trial. Come with us.”

Sano felt as though he’d been standing at the edge of a cliff and a thunderbolt had suddenly fractured the ground under his feet. He was falling away from everything solid and safe, into the abyss. “But I have to wait for my wife and son.” They might have evidence that could save him. Even if not, Sano couldn’t leave without seeing Reiko and Masahiro. He might be put to death immediately after the trial.

“You can’t. We have orders to bring you to the palace now.”

The bottom of the abyss came rushing up to meet Sano. Cut loose from all loved ones and all possibility of rescue, gripped by panic, Sano backed away from the troops.

“Come peacefully, or we’ll take you by force,” the leader said.

There was no use delaying the inevitable. Instinct and training took over. A wise samurai knows not to waste energy on undignified, futile struggling when the decisive battle is yet to come. Sano had to keep his strength for the trial, his last chance to save himself. He held up his hands, yielding.

“I’m going with him,” Marume said, “to testify on his behalf. He couldn’t have set the fire. He was at home asleep when it started.”

“He’s not allowed to bring any witnesses,” the leader said.

“That’s against the rules!” Marume protested.

“Chamberlain Yanagisawa sets the rules.” The leader shoved Marume aside.

Marume shoved him back. Suddenly the troops were all shouting, yanking at Marume, grabbing at Sano. Marume roared, throwing punches. Cries rang out as his fists connected with flesh. Steel rasped as the troops drew their swords.

“No!” the leader said sharply. “We’re supposed to bring him alive!”

Sano, caught in the scuffle, yelled, “Stop, Marume-
san
! Don’t get yourself killed.”

Marume ceased fighting. Two guards seized him and held his arms. He panted, his eyes hot and his teeth bared, like a wild horse restrained. The troops surrounded Sano so closely that he could smell the animal scent of the leather that covered the metal plates of their armor. As they nudged him toward the door, Sano said to Marume, “Take care of my family.”

The bluster leaked out of Marume. His big face filled with anguish. He knew this might be the last order Sano ever gave him. Sano felt a swelling in his throat. Marume nodded. This was their only tribute to the years that they’d been master and retainer. They both hoped this wasn’t the end. Neither could bear to say good-bye.

The troops marched Sano down the passage. His home felt strangely impersonal, like a way station on a journey from which there was no return. When he emerged from the mansion, his few retainers were in the courtyard. Army troops guarded them. As Sano walked down the steps, they bowed with solemn dignity. The gesture touched Sano’s heart. They must be afraid for themselves—if he were convicted and put to death, they could be executed as associates of a traitor. But they paid him what might be their last respects.

“Papa!” Akiko came running onto the veranda. Midori, Taeko, and Tatsuo followed her. She bounded down the steps, raced to Sano, and threw her arms around his legs. She cried, “Don’t go, Papa!”

Sano’s heart clutched painfully. She was too young to understand why he was leaving, but she knew it was bad. The troops shuffled to a halt. The leader said, “Keep moving.” He grabbed Akiko’s arm and pulled.

Akiko wailed and held on. Stroking her hair, Sano said gently, “Akiko, you have to let me go.” The leader pulled harder. Her little fingers gripped Sano’s trousers, then came loose. Sano felt as if a part of his own body were being torn away. Akiko shrieked. She turned on the leader, yelled, “You’re not taking my father away!” and clawed his face.

He recoiled, cursing, his cheeks marked by bloody scratches. Sano rushed Akiko toward the house. Midori hastened down the steps to meet them. Taeko and Tatsuo were crying. They were old enough to understand. Sano turned to Akiko. She wasn’t crying. Her little face was savage with rebellion.

“Listen to me, Akiko,” Sano said. “You have to be a good girl while I’m gone.”

“When are you coming back?” Akiko said.

He hated lying to his child, but the truth was worse. “Soon.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.” Sano hugged Akiko, hiding his tears against her soft hair. Then he gave her over to Midori.

As the soldiers led him away, he couldn’t look back. He kept his gaze trained straight ahead while he marched through the passages inside Edo Castle. Soldiers peered at him from watchtowers, from windows in the covered corridors atop the walls. He felt as if he were enclosed in a bubble of putrid slime. But the slime didn’t keep spectators at a distance. As his procession moved uphill, it attracted followers. By the time it reached the palace, its ranks had swelled to hundreds of soldiers, officials, pages, and servants. Sano thought of the parades during religious festivals, when crowds followed men carrying portable shrines through the streets. But here there was no loud, gay reveling. Everyone was quiet, befitting a grave moment in history. Instead of a shrine that housed the holy spirit of a god, the parade followed the lowest form of life, an accused traitor.

Flames guttered in the stone lanterns that flanked the path to the palace, even though the gray sky was still light. Palace sentries opened the door. It gaped like the maw of hell. As Sano neared it, the crowd dropped back. Pigeons fluttered in the eaves as he passed under them. The sound of hammering drifted up from the city. Life was going on, indifferent to his plight. The palace swallowed him up. Inside, officials, troops, and attendants lined the hall. They mutely watched him and his escorts enter the large reception chamber.

A narrow aisle divided a silent crowd that occupied the lower level of the floor. The troops ahead of him blocked Sano’s view of the chamber’s far end. All he could see was the ochre glow of lanterns burning on the dais. The crowd watched the troops march Sano up the aisle. Glancing from right to left, Sano saw rows of unfriendly faces that belonged to officials and
daimyo
who were cronies of Yanagisawa.

Anyone who might have come to Sano’s aid had been banned.

Sano stepped onto the higher level of the floor. In its middle, a small square of white sand covered the wooden boards—the
shirasu,
the white sand of truth, symbol of justice. The troops pushed Sano to his knees onto a straw mat in the center of the
shirasu.
Irony twisted Sano’s cut lips. A short time ago he’d been conducting trials, dispensing justice. If justice were served here, it would be a miracle.