Sano Ichiro 10 The Assassin's Touch (2005)
The Assassin’s Touch
Laura Joh Rowland
S ANO I CHIRŌ 10
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St. Martin’s Minotaur-New York
Also by Laura Joh Rowland
Shinjū
Bundori
The Way of the Traitor
The Concubine’s Tattoo
The Samurai’s Wife
Black Lotus
The Pillow Book of Lady Wisteria
The Dragon King’s Palace
The Perfumed Sleeve
The Assassin’s Touch
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CONTENTS
|Prologue|
|1|2|3|4|5|6 |7|8|9|10|11|12|13|
|14|15|16|17|18|19|20|21|22|23|24|
|25|26|27|28|29|30|31|32|33|34|
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St. Martin’s Minotaur—New York
The Assassin’s Touch. Copyright © 2005 by Laura Joh Rowland. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rowland, Laura Joh.
The assassin’s touch / Laura Joh Rowland. 1st cd.
p. cm
ISBN 0-312-31900-2 FAN 978-0-312-31900-7
1. Sano Ichiro (Fictitious character) -Fiction. 2. Japan-History- Genroku period, 1688 1704-Fiction. 3. Public officers-Crimes against- Fiction. 4. Police-Japan-Tokyo- Fiction. 5. Assassination-Fiction. I. Title.
PS3568.O934A98 2005 813’. 54-dc22
2005042763
First Edition: August 2005
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Edo
Genroku Period, Year 8, Month 4
(Tokyo, May 1695)
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PROLOGUE
A gunshot boomed within Edo Castle and echoed across the city that spread below the hilltop.
On the racetrack inside the castle, five horses bolted from the starting line. Samurai riders, clad in metal helmets and armor tunics, crouched low in the saddles. They flailed their galloping mounts with riding crops; their shouts demanded more speed. The horses’ hooves thundered up a storm of dust.
Around the long oval track, in wooden stands built in tiers and shaded from the sun by striped canopies, officials urged on the riders. Soldiers patrolling atop the stone walls of the compound and stationed in watchtowers above it waved and cheered. The horses galloped neck and neck until they reached the first curve, then crowded together as the riders jockeyed for position along the track’s inside edge. The riders struck out at their opponents’ mounts and bodies; their crops smacked horseflesh and rang loud against armor. Fighting for the lead, they yelled threats and insults at one another. Horses whinnied, colliding. As they rounded the curve, a rider on a bay stallion edged ahead of the pack.
The sensations of power and speed thrilled him. His heartbeat accelerated in rhythm with his horse’s pounding hooves. The din resounded in his helmet. Through its visor he saw the spectators flick by him, their waving hands, colorful robes, and avid faces a blur in the wind. He whooped as reckless daring exhilarated his spirits. This new horse was well worth the gold he’d paid for it. He would win back its price when he collected on his bets, and show everyone who the best rider in the capital was.
Hurtling along the track, he drew a length in front of the rest. When he looked over his shoulder, two riders charged up to him, one on each side. They leaned forward and lashed their whips at him. The blows glanced off his armor. One rider grabbed his reins and the other seized his tunic in an attempt to slow him down. Ruthless in his need to win, he banged his crop against their helmets. They dropped behind. The audience roared. The leader howled with glee as he veered around the curve. The pack rampaged after him, but he coaxed his horse faster. He increased his lead while racing toward the finish.
In his mind there suddenly arose an image of a horseman gaining on him, monstrous in size, black as night. Startled, he glanced backward, but saw only the familiar horses and riders laboring through the dust in his wake. He dug in his heels, flailed his whip. His horse put on a burst of speed that stretched the gap between him and the pack. Ahead, some hundred paces distant, loomed the finish line. Two samurai officials waited there, holding red flags, ready to signal the winner.
But now the monstrous horseman grew larger in his perception, storming so close that he could feel its shadow lapping at him. He felt a sharp, fierce pain behind his right eye, as though a knife had stabbed into his skull. A cry burst from him. The pain began to pulse, driving the blade deeper and deeper, harder and faster. He moaned in agony and confusion.
What was happening to him?
The sunlight brightened to an intensity that seared his eyes. The track, the men at the finish line, and the spectators dissolved into a blinding shimmer, as if the world had caught fire. His heart beat a loud, frantic counterpoint to the pulses of pain. External sounds melted into dim drones. A tingling sensation spread through his arms and legs. He couldn’t feel the horse under him. His head seemed very far away from his body. Now he knew something was dreadfully wrong. He tried to call for help, but only incoherent croaks emerged from his mouth.
Yet he felt no fear. Emotion and thought fled him like leaves scattering in the wind. His hands weakened; their grip on the reins loosened. His body was a numb, dead weight that sagged in the saddle. The brilliant, shimmering light contracted to a dot as the black horseman overtook him and darkness encroached on his vision.
The dot of light winked out. The world disappeared into black silence. Consciousness died.
As he crossed the finish line, he tumbled from his mount, into the path of the oncoming horses and riders.
* * *
1
Above the racetrack, past forested slopes carved by stonewalled passages that encircled and ascended the hill, a compound stood isolated from the estates that housed the top officials of the Tokugawa regime. High walls topped with metal spikes protected the compound, whose tiled roofs rose amid pine trees. Samurai officials, wearing formal silk robes and the two swords, shaved crowns, and topknots of their class, queued up outside. Guards escorted them in the double gate, through the courtyard, into the mansion that rambled in a labyrinth of wings connected by covered corridors. They gathered in an anteroom, waiting to see Chamberlain Sano Ichirō, the shogun’s second-in-command and chief administrator of the bakufu, the military government that ruled Japan. They passed the time with political gossip, their voices a constant, rising buzz. In nearby rooms whirled a storm of activity: The chamberlain’s aides conferred; clerks recorded business transacted by the regime, collated and filed reports; messengers rushed about.
Closeted in his private inner office, Chamberlain Sano sat with General Isogai, supreme commander of the army, who’d come to brief him on military affairs. Around them, colored maps of Japan hung on walls made of thick wooden panels that muted the noise outside. Shelves and fireproof iron chests held ledgers. The open window gave a view of the garden, where sand raked in parallel lines around mossy boulders shone brilliant white in the afternoon sun.
“There’s good news and bad news,” General Isogai said. He was a bulbous man with a squat head tha
t appeared to sprout directly from his shoulders. His eyes glinted with intelligence and joviality. He spoke in a loud voice accustomed to shouting orders. “The good news is that things have quieted down in the past six months.”
Six months ago, the capital had been embroiled in political strife. “We can be thankful that order has been restored and civil war prevented,” Sano said, recalling how troops from two opposing factions had clashed in a bloody battle outside Edo and 346 soldiers had died.
“We can thank the gods that Lord Matsudaira is in power, and Yanagisawa is out,” General Isogai added.
Lord Matsudaira—a cousin of the shogun—and the former chamberlain Yanagisawa had vied fiercely for domination of the regime. Their power struggle had divided the bakufu, until Lord Matsudaira had managed to win more allies, defeat the opposition’s army, and oust Yanagisawa. Now Lord Matsudaira controlled the shogun, and thus the dictatorship.
“The bad news is that the trouble’s not over,” General Isogai continued. “There have been more unfortunate incidents. Two of my soldiers were ambushed and murdered on the highway, and four others while patrolling in town. And yesterday, the army garrison at Hodogaya was bombed. Four soldiers were killed, eight wounded.”
Sano frowned in consternation. “Have the persons responsible been caught?”
“Not yet,” General Isogai said, his expression surly. “But of course we know who they are.”
After Yanagisawa had been ousted, scores of soldiers from his army had managed to escape Lord Matsudaira’s strenuous efforts to capture them. Edo, home to a million people and countless houses, shops, temples, and shrines, afforded many secret hiding places for the fugitive outlaws. Determined to avenge their master’s defeat, they were waging war upon Lord Matsudaira in the form of covert acts of violence. Thus, Yanagisawa still cast a shadow even though he now lived in exile on Hachijo Island in the middle of the ocean.
“I’ve heard reports of fighting between the army and the outlaws in the provinces,” Sano said. The outlaws were fomenting rebellion in areas where the Tokugawa had less military presence. “Have you figured out who’s leading the attacks?”
“I’ve interrogated the fugitives we’ve captured and gotten a few names,” General Isogai said. “They’re all senior officers from Yanagisawa’s army who’ve gone underground.”
“Could they be taking orders from above ground?”
“From inside the bakufu, you mean?” General Isogai shrugged. “Perhaps. Even though Lord Matsudaira has gotten rid of most of the opposition, he can’t eliminate it all.”
Lord Matsudaira had purged many officials because they’d supported his rival. The banishments, demotions, and executions would probably continue for some time. But remnants of the Yanagisawa faction still populated the government. These were men too powerful and entrenched for Lord Matsudaira to dislodge. They comprised a small but growing challenge to him.
“We’ll crush the rebels eventually,” General Isogai said. “Let’s just hope that a foreign army doesn’t invade Japan while we’re busy coping with them.”
Their meeting finished, Sano and General Isogai rose and exchanged bows. “Keep me informed,” Sano said.
The general contemplated Sano a moment. “These times have been disastrous for some people,” he remarked, “but beneficial for others.” His sly, knowing smile nudged Sano. “Had Yanagisawa and Lord Matsudaira never fought, a certain onetime detective would never have risen to heights far above expectation… isn’t that right, Honorable Chamberlain?”
He emphasized the syllables of Sano’s title, conferred six months ago as a result of a murder investigation that had contributed to Yanagisawa’s downfall. Once the shogun’s sōsakan-sama—Most Honorable Investigator of Events, Situations, and People—Sano had been chosen to replace Yanagisawa.
General Isogai chuckled. “I never thought I’d be reporting to a former rōnin.” Before Sano had joined the government, he’d been a masterless samurai, living on the fringes of society, eking out a living as a tutor and martial arts instructor. “I had a bet with some of my officers that you wouldn’t last a month.”
“Many thanks for your vote of confidence,” Sano said with a wry smile, as he recalled how he’d struggled to learn how the government operated, to keep its huge, arcane bureaucracy running smoothly, and establish good relations with subordinates who resented his promotion over them.
As soon as General Isogai had departed, the whirlwind outside Sano’s office burst through the door. Aides descended upon him, clamoring for his attention: “Here are the latest reports on tax revenues!” “Here are your memoranda to be signed!” “The judicial councilors are next in line to see you!”
The aides stacked documents in a mountain on the desk. They unfurled scrolls before Sano. As he scanned the papers and stamped them with his signature seal, he gave orders. Such had been his daily routine since he’d become chamberlain. He read and listened to countless reports in an attempt to keep up with everything that was happening in the nation. He had one meeting after another. His life had become an unceasing rush. He reflected that the Tokugawa regime, which had been founded by the steel of the sword, now ran on paper and talk. He regretted the habit he’d established when he’d taken up his new post.
In his zeal to take charge, he’d wanted to meet everyone, and hear all news and problems unfiltered by people who might hide the truth from him. He’d wanted to make decisions himself, rather than trust them to the two hundred men who comprised his staff. Because he didn’t want to end up ignorant and manipulated, Sano had opened his door to hordes of officials. But he’d soon realized he’d gone too far. Minor issues, and people anxious to curry his favor, consumed too much of his attention. He often felt as though he was frantically treading water, in constant danger of drowning. He’d made many mistakes and stepped on many toes.
Regardless of his difficulties, Sano took pride in his accomplishments. He’d kept the Tokugawa regime afloat despite his lack of experience. He’d attained the pinnacle of a samurai’s career, the greatest honor. Yet he often felt imprisoned in his office. His warrior spirit grew restless; he didn’t even have time for martial arts practice. Sitting, talking, and shuffling paper while his sword rusted was no job for a samurai. Sano couldn’t help yearning for his days as a detective, the intellectual challenge of solving crimes, and the thrill of hunting criminals. He wished to use his new power to do good, yet there seemed not much chance of that.
An Edo Castle messenger hovered near Sano. “Excuse me, Honorable Chamberlain,” he said, “but the shogun wants to see you in the palace right now.”
On top of everything else, Sano was at the shogun’s command day and night. His most important duty was keeping his lord happy. He couldn’t refuse a summons, no matter how frivolous the reason usually turned out to be.
As he exited his chamber, his two retainers, Marume and Fukida, accompanied him. Both had belonged to his detective corps when he was sōsakan-sama; now they served him as bodyguards and assistants. They hastened through the anteroom, where the officials waiting to see Sano fretted around him, begging for a moment of his attention. Sano made his apologies and mentally tore himself away from all the work he had to do, while Marume and Fukida hustled him out the door.
Inside the palace, Sano and his escorts walked up the long audience chamber, past the guards stationed against the walls. The shogun sat on the dais at the far end. He wore the cylindrical black cap of his rank, and a luxurious silk brocade robe whose green and gold hues harmonized with the landscape mural behind him. Lord Matsudaira knelt in the position of honor, below the shogun on his right. Sano knelt in his own customary position at the shogun’s left; his men knelt near him. As they bowed to their superiors, Sano thought how similar the two cousins were in appearance, yet how different.
They both had the aristocratic Tokugawa features, but while the shogun’s were withered and meek, Lord Matsudaira’s were fleshed out by robust health and bold spirits. They were both fifty
years of age and near the same height, but the shogun seemed much older and smaller due to his huddled posture. Lord Matsudaira, who outweighed his cousin, sat proudly erect. Although he wore robes in subdued colors, he dominated the room.
“I’ve requested this meeting to announce some bad news,” Lord Matsudaira said. He maintained a cursory charade that his cousin held the power, and pretended to defer to him, but fooled no one except the shogun. Even though he now controlled the government, he still danced attendance on his cousin because if he didn’t, other men would, and he could lose his influence over the shogun to them. “Ejima Senzaemon has just died.”
Sano experienced surprise and dismay. The shogun’s face took on a queasy, confused expression. “Who did you say?” His voice wavered with his constant fear of seeming stupid.
“Ejima Senzaemon,” repeated Lord Matsudaira.
“Ahh.” The shogun wrinkled his forehead, more baffled than enlightened. “Do I know him?”
“Of course you do,” Lord Matsudaira said, barely hiding his impatience at his cousin’s slow wits. Sano could almost hear him thinking that he, not Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, should have been born to rule the regime.
“Ejima was chief of the metsuke,” Sano murmured helpfully. The metsuke was the intelligence service that employed spies to gather information all over Japan, for the purpose of monitoring troublemakers and guarding the regime’s power.