The floor beneath his feet changed to firm, cushioned tatami. The soldiers pushed him down on his knees and let go of him. Their footsteps retreated; a door closed. Ichijo sensed a human presence in the room with him. His panic mounted. He couldn’t breathe. Desperately, he tore the sack off his head.
Bright light blinded him. As his vision focused, he saw that he was in a bare, spacious room. Sliding walls stood open to a vista of blue-white sky and hazy green hills bathed with sunshine. Murals depicting similar scenery gave the illusion that the room was an extension of the landscape outside. Then a man moved into Ichijo’s view. He was a tall, slender samurai, clad in dark silk robes, swords at his waist. He stood proudly erect; his face had a striking, sinister beauty.
“Who are you?” Ichijo demanded, grasping at a semblance of his usual authority.
The samurai smiled; his intense gaze scrutinized Ichijo. “My apologies for any discomfort or inconvenience you’ve suffered. Be assured that I wouldn’t have employed such an unusual method of conveying you here unless it was absolutely necessary. I am Chamberlain Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu.”
Now Ichijo noticed the gold Tokugawa crests on the man’s surcoat.
“The shogun’s second-in-command?” he asked in bewilderment. Fresh terror followed. The chamberlain was the most powerful man in Japan, with a reputation for cruelty. This secretive encounter-in a mysterious location and where no one knew Ichijo had gone-held the possibility for evil beyond imagination. “But… I did not know you were in Miyako.”
“Very few people do know,” the chamberlain said, “and for now, I intend to keep it that way.”
“Why?” When important bakufu officials came to town, they invariably did so with great fanfare.
“My reasons are none of your concern.”
The chamberlain’s suave arrogance outraged Ichijo. After he’d been coerced out of the palace, carted away like a piece of baggage, and frightened almost to death, his pride rebelled against further disrespect. Anger gave him daring.
Rising, he said haughtily, “Whatever business you have with me, I prefer to discuss it in my office, under civilized conditions. Therefore, I shall go now.”
He turned and started toward the door, but the chamberlain’s quiet voice halted him: “I wouldn’t advise that. The soldiers who brought you are waiting outside. They’ll use force to stop you. You’ll suffer much pain and accomplish nothing. So you’d best resign yourself to staying awhile.”
Defeated, Ichijo faced his adversary’s scornful smile. “What do you want from me?” he said, hating his impotence, hating the whole Tokugawa regime.
“Information,” the chamberlain said. He paced a swift circle around Ichijo; his steps wove an invisible snare. “Information regarding the murder of Left Minister Konoe.”
With keen interest, Chamberlain Yanagisawa studied his prisoner. Right Minister Ichijo’s face was red and sweaty, his gray hair disordered, and his garments wrinkled, but his stance was confident; his noble breeding gave him an unshakable dignity, despite the terror that Yanagisawa’s sharp instincts detected in him. Admiration and misgivings stirred in Yanagisawa. Here was an opponent whose defeat would bring him great satisfaction, but he couldn’t expect an easy victory. Nor did he know exactly what he would do with whatever information he got from Ichijo.
“Tell me about your relationship with Konoe,” he said.
Ichijo’s features assumed an impassive expression that didn’t quite mask how much he longed to avoid the subject of his dead colleague. He said, “That seems more a matter of concern to Sōsakan Sano, who is investigating Konoe’s affairs, than to yourself. Why are you treating me this way?”
“Let’s just say that I have a personal interest in the case.” Yanagisawa recognized a ploy to divert the conversation away from the left minister. He’d thought himself the master of verbal warfare, but Ichijo equaled him. The knowledge rankled, and he found satisfaction in remembering the decline of Ichijo’s clan, the Fujiwara.
They’d once controlled huge areas of land by giving protection to the owners in exchange for revenues and loyalty, but as decades passed, they’d squandered their energy on frivolous amusements. Their hold on the provinces relaxed. Revolts broke out in the countryside. The Fujiwara were forced to rely upon the Taira and Minamoto warrior clans to maintain order. Eventually those clans clashed during the Gempei Wars two centuries ago. The Minamoto won the right to rule in the name of the emperor, marking the end of the Fujiwara era and the triumph of the samurai. Right Minister Ichijo and his kind were artifacts of a dead regime.
“Does Sōsakan Sano know you’re doing this?” Ichijo asked.
His impertinence vexed Yanagisawa. “You’re here to answer questions, not ask them,” he said. “Stop stalling. Kneel!”
With a look that disdained Yanagisawa and the entire samurai class as crude louts, Ichijo knelt.
“Now tell me about Left Minister Konoe,” Yanagisawa said.
A brief pause conveyed Ichijo’s opinion that the matter was none of Yanagisawa’s business and he would comply only because of the threat of punishment. "Konoe-san was wise, diligent, and respectable. A brilliant administrator.”
Chamberlain Yanagisawa perceived an artificial note in Ichijo’s voice. “You didn’t like him, then.”
“We were colleagues, and cousins.” A faint twitch of the right minister’s aristocratic mouth rebuked Yanagisawa for questioning his family affection-the Konoe, too, belonged to the Fujiwara clan. The Imperial Court was a world united against outsiders, but Yanagisawa had a special weapon with which to penetrate it: the metsuke reports he’d hidden from Sano and studied during the journey to Miyako.
“I understand that the post of imperial prime minister is vacant,” he said.
“Yes, that is correct.” A subtle stiffening of Ichijo’s posture indicated that he guessed where this was leading. “The last incumbent of that office died this spring.”
The prime minister was the highest court official. He acted as chief adviser to the emperor, controlled communications between the sovereign and the five thousand palace residents, and governed the noble class. Power over such a tiny kingdom seemed trivial to Yanagisawa, but he knew it mattered to the nobles, who had nothing else to aspire to because they were barred from engaging in trade or holding real government posts.
“When did the emperor plan to name a new prime minister?” Yanagisawa asked, though he already knew the answer.
“At the end of this month.”
“Who were the leading candidates?”
Ichijo hesitated, then said, “Really, Honorable Chamberlain, I fail to sec why court appointments should concern you.”
“Answer the question.”
“Left Minister Konoe and myself were in line to be the next prime minister,” Ichijo conceded.
“And which of you was more likely to win the honor?” Yanagisawa said.
“As left minister and head of the senior branch of our clan, my cousin Konoe-san outranked me.” Ichijo’s features had gone rigid. “His Majesty the Emperor would have taken that into consideration, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Yanagisawa agreed, “but you minded, nonetheless?”
Ichijo glared at him.
Yanagisawa pressed on: “You were superior to Konoe in age, experience, and character.” Ichijo’s reputation was free of scandal, his career a dull testament to duty. “You deserved to be prime minister, and Konoe considered you a rival. I daresay you didn’t appreciate the methods he used against you.”
“Whatever are you talking about?”
The sharp, black edges of Ichijo’s teeth flashed between lips that barely moved; both menace and fear laced his quiet monotone. An enthusiast of the No theater, Yanagisawa pictured himself and Ichijo as two actors on stage, moving toward a dramatic climax. Beyond the balcony overlooking the hillside, Obon gongs and birds’ cries mimicked the music and chorus of No drama. As afternoon slipped into evening, a shaft of coppery sunlight angled through the window, illuminating Ichijo’s kneeling figure.