“Did meditation reveal to you that Daiemon killed your master and deserved to die?” Hirata said.

Tamura breathed again, apparently thinking that his alibi had stymied Hirata, who’d resorted to fishing again. “It’s common knowledge that Daiemon was a poor excuse for a samurai,” he said between whistling sword strokes. “He had too good an opinion of himself, too little respect for his elders, and too much appetite for women. He spread disgusting lies that my master had defected. Someone did the world a favor by getting rid of Daiemon. Bleeding to death in his whore’s bed was a fitting end to him.”

“Your attitude toward him sounds like a motive for murder,” Hirata said.

The sword flashed close to him, and he leaped back just in time to avoid a cut across the throat. Tamura said, “I wouldn’t dirty my blade on a rat like Daiemon.”

“What if he knew something about you that you’d rather keep secret? When he was at Senior Elder Makino’s estate, did he see you killing your master or covering up the murder?”

“Nonsense!” Tamura whacked at Hirata’s shins; Hirata sprang above the blade. “Even if I’d wanted to kill Daiemon, I wouldn’t have sneaked up on him in the dark, stabbed him, and run. That’s a coward’s way of killing.”

“Instead you’d have marched up to Daiemon on the street in broad daylight and cut off his head?” said Hirata.

“As a true samurai would.”

Hirata could picture Tamura doing such a thing. The murder of Daiemon did seem out of character for him-but perhaps that had been intentional. Hirata said, “Suppose you didn’t want anyone to know you’d killed Daiemon. You might have done it in a way that you thought no one would think you would, to avoid punishment from Lord Matsudaira.”

Tamura gave an abrasive chuckle as his sword sliced intricate, lightning-fast patterns in the air. “Deceit is dishonorable. A true samurai takes credit for his actions and accepts the consequences. When I carry out my vendetta, everyone will know what I’ve done. I’ll go to my fate with my head held high.”

His gaze deplored Hirata. “But I don’t expect you to understand. After all, you’re famous for your disloyalty to your master. Who are you to accuse me of disgrace?”

Hot shame and rage erupted in Hirata. Tamura stood still, his sword held motionless in both hands, the blade canted toward Hirata. With instinctive haste, Hirata drew his own weapon. Tamura grinned.

“Now we’ll see who’s the true samurai and who’s the disgrace to Bushido,” Tamura said.

The lantern light glinted on their blades. Hirata felt danger vibrating in the air between them, his heart drumming with a primitive urge for a battle to the death, his muscles tensed to lunge. But second thoughts gave him pause. He didn’t fear losing; although Tamura was an expert swordsman, he was some thirty years older than Hirata, and he’d never fought real battles, as Hirata had. Instead, Hirata realized that killing one of the suspects would hurt the investigation. Rising to Tamura’s challenge to defend his honor would only prove Hirata an incorrigible disgrace to Sano and condemn himself to death as a murderer.

Hirata stepped back from Tamura. He sheathed his sword and endured the contempt he saw on his adversary’s face. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

“Coward,” Tamura said.

Swallowing humiliation, fighting his temper, Hirata forced himself to speak quietly: “You know something about Makino’s murder that you haven’t told. If you killed him-or Daiemon-I will personally deliver you to justice.”

He left the building before Tamura could reply or his urge to fight could overrule his better judgment. Outside, he breathed in vigorous huffs, expelling evil thoughts. Learning self-restraint was painful. As Hirata walked through the troops milling on the martial arts training ground, he forced himself to concentrate on the investigation.

Logic and instinct convinced him that Tamura and Koheiji were both lying about the night Makino died. But while both men lacked definite alibis for Daiemon’s murder, their connections to him were tenuous, and there was no evidence that Daiemon had witnessed either of them killing Makino, or anything at all, that night. The only news Hirata had for Sano was that he’d followed orders and kept out of trouble today.

He decided to try another tactic. Scanning the Matsudaira soldiers, he saw a heavyset samurai, clad in armor, galloping his horse across the field. The visor of his helmet was tipped back to reveal a youthful face with rosy cheeks and a square jaw. Hirata waved at him, calling, “Noro-san”.

Noro reined his mount to a stop beside Hirata and swung down from the saddle. “Hirata-san,” he said with a quick bow and smile. “What brings you here? Are you joining our side?”

“I’ve come on other business,” Hirata said. “By the way, my condolences on the death of your master.”

Noro’s expression saddened as he nodded in thanks. He had been a personal bodyguard to Daiemon.

Hirata steered Noro behind a range of archery targets, where they could talk unobserved. “I need a favor.”

“Just name it,” Noro said.

His willingness to oblige stemmed from an incident six years ago, when he and some friends had gotten into a brawl with a gang of peasant toughs. The gang had outnumbered and overpowered Noro and his friends. Noro had lost his sword in the scuffle, and one of the toughs had begun savagely beating him with an iron pole, when Hirata-a patrol officer at the time-had happened along. Hirata had broken up the fight and saved Noro’s life. That initial acquaintance had grown into friendship when Hirata came to Edo Castle. Noro had sworn to thank Hirata by doing him any favor he wanted.

“Who was the woman Daiemon went to meet at the Sign of Bedazzlement?” Hirata asked.

Noro’s eyes strayed. “I wish you’d asked me anything but that,” he said. “I can’t tell anybody, including you.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“I made a promise to Daiemon.”

Although a samurai’s promise to his master overrode any other, Hirata persisted. “What does it matter if you tell, now that Daiemon is dead?”

“I can’t tell you that, either,” Noro said, obviously ashamed to disappoint the man to whom he owed his life. “But believe me, it matters.”

“She may have killed Daiemon,” Hirata pointed out. “If you don’t tell me who she is, you could be protecting his murderer. And you’re also standing in the way of my duty to help my master solve the crime.”

Misery clouded Noro’s honest gaze, but he shook his head, refusing to be drawn into an argument.

“Could you at least get me inside the Matsudaira estate so that I can look for clues in Daiemon’s quarters?” Hirata said.

“Lord Matsudaira would kill me. I’m sorry,” Noro said.

“All right.” Hirata walked away, but slowly, giving Noro time to change his mind. Hirata felt his hopes hinging on Noro’s sense of honor.

“Wait,” Noro said.

Hirata turned expectantly.

“I can’t say who the woman is, but I must help you somehow,” Noro said. He rocked his weight from one armor-clad leg to the other. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, either, but… Daiemon had other quarters besides the ones in the Matsudaira estate. He kept a house in Kanda.” Noro described the location. “But you didn’t hear about it from me.”