“I have an urgent message for you,” the soldier said, “from your wife.”

12

Sano said to Lady Asagao, “I’ve summoned you here to discuss the murder of Left Minister Konoe.”

He was seated in the reception hall of the bakufu office that had been built in the imperial enclosure for ceremonial visits from shoguns, and to accommodate local officials on business at the palace. Opposite him sat Lady Asagao, Right Minister Ichijo, Lady Jokyōden, and a group of court nobles. Emperor Tomohito occupied a canopied dais nearby. Asagao’s expression was vacant and Tomohito’s bewildered, while caution hooded the faces of their companions. Tokugawa troops stood guard around the room.

“My wife found these in your room, Your Highness,” Sano said, pointing to a clothes stand that held the bloodstained robes. “Please explain them.”

The message Reiko had sent to Kodai Temple had asked Sano to meet her at Nijō Manor immediately. When he got there, she’d given him the garments and told how she’d discovered them. Sano had left Reiko there and ridden to the palace. His order for Asagao to report to the bakufu office had also brought the emperor and his mother, chief official, and top advisers.

Right Minister Ichijo said coldly, “For your wife to search Lady Asagao’s rooms without her permission was a grave insult to the Imperial Court.”

“Lady Asagao and I offered your wife friendship, and she took advantage of our trust by spying on us.” Lady Jokyōden spoke with stern reproach. Beautiful and authoritative, she was exactly as Reiko had described her to Sano. “Such underhanded tactics are deplorable.”

The emperor glared at Sano. “Lady Asagao is my sacred consort. It’s against the rules for anyone to order her around as if she were a commoner. She doesn’t have to talk to you.”

Asagao sat mute and immobile. She was pretty, as Reiko had said, but her bright clothing ill suited her lifeless manner. Sano couldn’t imagine her performing in amateur Kabuki or spilling drunken confidences to Reiko.

“She had nothing to do with Left Minister Konoe,” Emperor Tomohito said. “You’ve no right to treat her this way!”

Sano saw his earlier fears realized: Through his investigation, he’d seriously offended these people. By worsening the age-old tension between the Imperial Court and the bakufu, he risked upsetting Japan’s balance of power. He-and Reiko, who’d precipitated the crisis-could expect punishment from the shogun if he continued this way. Yet he saw no alternative.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” he said politely, “but justice takes precedence over court rules. I have orders to investigate Left Minister Konoe’s death, and I must find out the truth about it. I’m not accusing Lady Asagao of any wrongdoing. I just want to know how the blood got on her clothes.” Sano turned to Asagao. “Your Highness?”

She looked at him as though he’d spoken in a language she didn’t understand.

“You’ve frightened her so badly that she can’t talk,” the emperor said.

“Sōsakan-sama, there’s obviously been a mistake. You seem to be suggesting that Lady Asagao soiled her clothes while killing the left minister. Yet we don’t even know if those are in fact her clothes.” Ichijo attempted to defend his daughter in a controlled, reasonable voice. “The stains may not even be the left minister’s blood.”

“Someone else could have put the stained robes in Lady Asagao’s room,” said Lady Jokyōden.

Sano had considered these possibilities. Now he noted that the three people trying to protect Lady Asagao had reason to do as Jokyōden suggested, to divert suspicion toward Asagao and away from them. But although he sympathized with the confused young woman, he needed to hear her story.

“Are they not your clothes, Your Highness?” Sano said gently.

Instead of answering, Asagao gazed at a point somewhere beyond him.

“Did someone hide them in your cabinet?”

No reply came. The emperor muttered angrily; the nobles watched Sano, their faces and postures rigid. Weak sunlight cast the wind-stirred shadows of trees against the paper walls, but in the reception hall, no one moved.

Then Asagao bowed her head and spoke in a trembling, barely audible voice: "They’re mine. I wore them the night Left Minister Konoe died. I killed him.”

The frozen vacuum of silence filled the room. Emperor Tomohito’s mouth dropped; shock blanched the elegant features of Right Minister Ichijo and Lady Jokyōden; the nobles stared. Then everyone spoke at once.

“No! You couldn’t!” Scrambling to the edge of his dais, the emperor grabbed his consort by the shoulders and shook her. “Why do you say such a thing? Take it back before you get in trouble!”

The nobles murmured anxiously among themselves. Ichijo said, “Speak no more, daughter.” Panic shone through his controlled manner as he turned to Sano. “She’s not in her right mind. Don’t believe what she says.”

“You’ve intimidated her into saying what you want to hear,” Jokyōden said. “Now she’s distraught and ill. We must take her to her room and call a physician.”

The group rose, except for Asagao, who knelt with eyes downcast and arms clasped around her stomach.

“Sit down!” Sano ordered. He hated to antagonize the Imperial Court any further, but he had to reestablish control over the situation. “No one leaves this room.”

Soldiers blocked the doors. The emperor, Jokyōden, Ichijo, and the rest reluctantly resumed their places. Sano perceived fear beneath their infuriated expressions. In the uneasy quiet that ensued, he focused his attention on Lady Asagao.

Cowering on the floor, she appeared steeped in guilt. But although Sano had hoped for a quick solution to the murder case, Asagao’s confession had come too easily, before he could even ask her if she’d killed Konoe. He still couldn’t believe he’d explored the full scope of the case, and he wouldn’t act on the confession until he made sure it was valid.

“Your Highness,” he said, “you stated that you killed Left Minister Konoe. Is that correct?”

Asagao nodded.

“This is a very serious claim,” Sano said. “Do you understand that it means you could be sentenced to death?”

Emperor Tomohito opened his mouth to speak, but Lady Jokyōden quelled him with a glance.

“I understand,” Asagao whispered.

“In case you weren’t telling the truth before,” Sano said, “I’m giving you a chance to do so now. Did you kill Left Minister Konoe?”

Ichijo leaned toward Asagao, his gaze intense, as if willing her to speak the words that would save her. A strangled sound of protest came from the emperor. Jokyōden and the nobles waited and watched, motionless.

“It was the truth.” Asagao spoke louder, but in a dull voice barren of conviction. “I killed him.”

Sano inhaled a deep breath, held it a moment, then let the air ease from him. He’d shown more consideration toward Lady Asagao than the law required, yet he still wasn’t satisfied.

“Why did you kill the left minister?” he said.

“I was angry at him.”

“Look at me, Your Highness.”

Asagao raised her face to Sano. Her mouth trembled.

“Why were you angry?” Sano said patiently.

“He had been paying attention to me since last spring. He gave me gifts and compliments. He was so handsome and charming, I fell in love with him.” Asagao continued in the same dull monotone; her eyes kept darting sideways. “A few months ago, when he wanted to make love to me, I let him.”

“No!” Emperor Tomohito stared at his consort in wounded fury. “You’re mine. You aren’t supposed to have anybody else. And the left minister was my teacher-my friend. You both deceived me!”

With a howl, he struck out at Asagao. His palm smote her head. She rocked sideways. Tomohito retreated to the back of his dais, where he knelt, his back to everyone. His shoulders quaked with angry, muffled sobs.