Those words compensated Lady Yanagisawa for all the pain he’d caused her. Now she wept for joy. At last she’d won his love! All the evils she’d done seemed worthwhile; all she’d risked or lost was nothing. A radiant future beckoned. The chamberlain would become a real husband to her and a real father to their daughter, just as he’d promised. He would rule Japan; she would help him whenever possible and necessary.

At this moment, not even Reiko could boast such good fortune as Lady Yanagisawa enjoyed.

The Kanda district verged upon the northeast boundary of Edo Castle. It was convenient to the seat of political power, yet a world away, and mostly populated by merchants who’d come from central Japan to seek their fortunes. Dyers, blacksmiths, carpenters, plasterers, swordsmiths, and candle makers inhabited various quarters in Kanda, but not all the residents engaged in profitable or legal commerce. Along the bank of the Kanda River were hovels for beggars and outcasts, and a field known as a haunt of the lowest class of prostitutes, the itinerant “nighthawks.” Here, a nobleman could find a haven from the Tokugawa court; he could exist anonymously among people beneath his class and too occupied with the struggle for survival to pay him much notice.

Sano arrived with Hirata, a squadron of detectives, Otani, Ibe, and their men, in Tsukegi Street. The street was named for the product sold there-charms against fire, Edo’s worst natural hazard. Shops displayed the little figurines made from wood and sulfur. Above the shops were living quarters. These had latticed windows and rickety balconies sheltered by overhanging eaves. Sano and his companions dismounted and secured their horses outside the middle building on the west side of the street, where Daiemon had maintained a secret establishment.

Its entrance was located in an alley festooned with laundry on clotheslines. Sano and Hirata climbed a creaky wooden staircase to Daiemon’s quarters while the other men waited below. Although Hirata had determined the house to be unoccupied, Sano knocked on the door because Ibe and Otani were watching and he must act as if he knew nothing about the house or who might be there. Nobody answered. Sano tried the door and found it locked, but when he and Hirata shoved hard against it, the catch gave way. Ibe and Otani hastened up the stairs and followed them into the house.

The first room was a kitchen furnished with a hearth and a few dishes and utensils. “Whoever lives here doesn’t do much cooking,” Ibe remarked.

They passed beyond a sliding partition, into a chamber that contained a tatami floor, built-in cabinets, and an elaborately carved black wooden chest. Charcoal braziers filled with ash stood about the room; a red lacquer table held a porcelain sake decanter and cups. A silk cushion sat before a writing desk made of black lacquer and decorated with floral gold inlays. In one corner, a screen decorated with a painting of a waterfall enclosed a metal tub large enough for a man to bathe in. Such luxurious decor seemed out of place in humble Tsukegi Street.

“He makes himself comfortable,” Otani said as he opened a cabinet to reveal folded silk bedding and robes.

Ibe examined the screen. “This wasn’t cheap. He has money.”

Sano wondered uneasily whether Ibe and Otani would discover whose house this was and what would happen if they did. But Daiemon seemed not to have left any obvious clues to his identity. Sano and Hirata found two smaller rooms, both unfurnished. They returned to the main chamber, where Otani had opened the chest. This held a pair of swords on a rack.

“Whoever he is, he’s a samurai,” Ibe said.

Otani lifted out the long sword and frowned in puzzlement. “This dragon design on the hilt looks familiar,” he said. “I’m sure I’ve seen it someplace before… but where?”

Sano gave Hirata a look that said they’d better finish inspecting the house before Otani recalled that he’d seen his lord’s nephew wearing the sword. While Hirata began searching the cabinet, Sano opened the lid of the desk. Inside he found writing supplies and a pile of gold coins alongside a stack of white rice paper. Sano riffled the sheets and found them all blank except the last, which bore scrawled black writing.

“What’s that?” Ibe said, leaning over Sano’s shoulder.

The paper read:

Makino

One hundred koban beforehand

One hundred afterward

Final payment the next day, at the Floating Teahouse

Elation vied with apprehension inside Sano. “Unless I’m mistaken, this means that somebody hired somebody else to assassinate Senior Elder Makino,” he said.

And if Sano was correct, the person who’d hired the assassin had to be Daiemon. Yet Sano was less pleased with the thought that he’d solved the crime than concerned about the consequences of the solution. If he exposed Daiemon as the person responsible for Makino’s death, what then? Chamberlain Yanagisawa would be delighted to have the Matsudaira clan disgraced. Lord Matsudaira would come raging after Sano’s blood… if Sano first survived defying his watchdogs’ orders against investigating Daiemon or involving their lords in the crime.

“But who’s the assassin?” Ibe said. “And who hired him?”

A creaking noise outside froze everyone into alert silence. Somebody was coming up the stairs. Sano and Hirata drew their swords and stood to one side of the doorway leading through the kitchen to the entrance. Ibe and Otani also unsheathed their weapons and positioned themselves on the other side. Suspense hushed the room. Sano heard the door open. The footsteps crossed the kitchen. Into the parlor walked a samurai.

“Halt!” Sano ordered.

He lunged, his blade pointed at the samurai. Hirata, Otani, and Ibe followed suit. The samurai yelped. His eyes widened and his mouth gaped in horror as four blades impinged on his throat. He fumbled for his own weapon.

“Don’t even try,” Sano said.

The samurai gulped, nodded, and held his hands palms up in surrender. He was in his twenties, with a heavy jaw and a square, short, muscular build. His silk garments and expensive swords declared him a member of the upper social ranks.

“Who are you?” Sano asked.

Before the samurai could answer, Otani said, “Kubo-san?” Startled recognition marked both men’s faces. “What are you doing here?”

“Otani-san,” the samurai said with obvious relief at seeing someone he knew. “Please don’t hurt me! Please allow me to explain!”

“How do you know each other?” Sano said, surprised himself, as he and Hirata and the watchdogs sheathed their weapons.

“He was a retainer to Daiemon,” said Otani. Then he addressed the young samurai: “By all means explain.”

Sano saw Hirata’s leery expression. He braced himself for what he knew was coming.

“I came to get some money and swords that Daiemon left here,” said Kubo. “I thought I should give them to his family.”

“This was Daiemon’s place?” Otani demanded, as he stared at Kubo, then around the room.

“Well, yes,” Kubo said nervously. “Only a few of his men know about it. We weren’t supposed to tell. But now that he’s dead, I guess it doesn’t really matter… does it?”

A brief silence, fraught with tension, ensued while Otani and Ibe grasped the meaning of the news they’d just received. Otani spoke in a tone of dumbfounded revelation: “Those are Daiemon’s swords. I knew I’d seen them before.” He snatched the note from Hirata. “It was Daiemon who wrote this?”

Kubo peered at the note. “That looks like his writing.”

Ibe’s face showed dawning enlightenment, then a calculating look. “Daiemon hired the assassin. He was behind Senior Elder Makino’s murder.”

“No!” Otani exclaimed, aghast. “It can’t be!”

“This place belonged to Daiemon. He wrote the note,” Ibe said.

“But-but maybe we’ve misinterpreted the note,” Otani said.