Laura Rowland - The Assassin's Touch

Young Detective Tachibana rushed into the office. “Excuse me, Honorable Chamberlain. I’ve found out where Captain Nakai is. He didn’t show up for duty today, so I went to his house. His wife said he went to the sumo tournament. Shall I go fetch him?”

“Good work. But I’ll go myself.” Sano rose, stretching muscles cramped from sitting. “It’ll save time.”

Hirata, Marume, and Fukida rose to accompany him. Sano noticed how stiffly Hirata moved. “If you have other important business, you’re excused,” Sano said, giving Hirata a graceful way out of a long, uncomfortable ride.

“I’ve nothing else as important as this,” Hirata said staunchly. “And I want to see what Captain Nakai has to say.”

Although glad for his company, Sano experienced fresh guilt. “Very well.”

The sumo tournaments were held at the Eko-in Temple in Honjo district, across the Sumida River. Sano and Hirata rode with Detectives Marume, Fukida, Arai, Inoue, and Tachibana along the canals that veined Honjo. They passed vegetable markets, residences of minor samurai officials, a few Tokugawa warehouses and the suburban villas of daimyo, the feudal lords. Smoke rose and heat shimmered from kilns where ceramic roof tiles were baked. Through the streets marched men who beat a huge drum, announcing the sumo tournament. Sano heard a deeper, louder pulse from the drum in the tall scaffold outside the temple. Crowds streamed toward its gates, which loomed ahead.

Eko-in Temple had been built thirty-eight years ago, after the Great Fire of Meireki, to commemorate the hundred thousand people who’d died in the disaster. Its grounds contained the city’s official wrestling arena. Sumo had evolved from a Shinto fertility rite to popular entertainment. Since the beginning of the Tokugawa regime almost a century ago, there had been periodic edicts banning sumo because it was violent, bloody, and often fatal. But the authorities had realized that sumo served a purpose. It gave rōnin a place in society, and the officially sanctioned, tightly regulated tournaments gave society a way to blow off steam. Sano noted that the crowds seemed bigger than usual after the war.

He and his men left their horses at a stable and walked into the arena, a vast, open-air space. From its walls extended double tiers of balconies covered with bamboo canopies. The lower tiers were already full of people; newcomers climbed ladders to the upper levels. In the center stood the ring, defined by four pillars with cords strung between them. Thousands more spectators sat crammed together on the ground, pressed up against the ring. Straw rice bales filled with clay had been placed around it to keep the wrestling area clear. Referees and judges knelt at its edge. Vendors selling refreshments waded through the crowds.

“How are we ever going to find Captain Nakai in this?” Hirata asked as he and Sano scanned the noisy, chaotic arena.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Sano said.

The drumbeats quickened. Into the ring paraded the wrestlers. Their naked chests and limbs bulged with muscle and fat. They wore ceremonial fringe and silk ropes around their waists, and brocade aprons that sported the family crests of the lords of Kishu, Izumo, Sanuki, Awa, Karima, Sendai, or Nambu. Those lords recruited wrestlers for their private stables. Sano noticed larger teams than usual: The war had created more rōnin, who swelled the ranks of the sumo wrestlers.

The audience cheered as the wrestlers threw down salt to purify their sacred battlefield. They stamped their feet and clapped their hands to show off their strength and drive off evil spirits. A referee held up placards bearing their names. Gazing up at the balconies, Sano noticed a strange phenomenon. The top tiers were packed except for a vacant spot directly opposite the ring. In its middle sat a lone samurai.

“There he is,” Sano said, pointing.

He and his men jostled through the mob; they scaled a ladder. As they edged along the balcony, past the audience who knelt on its floor, a group of commoners seated themselves in the empty space around Captain Nakai.

“You’re too close,” he said. “Move.” His voice was belligerent, threatening. The commoners hastily decamped.

Sano had seen Nakai only once before-at a ceremony after the war, when the victorious army had paraded before Lord Matsudaira, carrying the severed heads of slain enemy troops-but Nakai had made a memorable impression. With his tall, athletic build and noble manner, he epitomized the warrior race.

Although Nakai was in his thirties, past his prime, Sano had easily imagined him single-handedly killing forty-eight men in battle. But today he sat idle, dressed in a brown silk robe, trousers, and surcoat instead of armor; his posture was slouched instead of proudly upright. Discontent shadowed his strong, carven features as he stared down at the ring.

“Captain Nakai?” Sano said.

Nakai turned. Recognition cleared the glum look from his face as he beheld Sano and Hirata. “Honorable Chamberlain. Sōsakan-sama.” He bowed, alert and animated. “Please sit down.” With a smile that showed broad white teeth, he offered them the space he’d kept clear.

“Many thanks,” Sano said. He and Hirata and their men sat.

“Are you fond of sumo?” Nakai said.

“Yes,” Sano said, “but that’s not why we’re here. We came to talk to you.”

“Me?” Nakai sounded awed and confused. Seeing him at close range, Sano noticed a flaw in his perfection. It was his eyes. Their expression lacked something-perhaps not so much intelligence as self-possession. “But why… how did you know to find me here?”

When Sano told him, Nakai’s face reddened. “Well, I know I should be at my post, but it’s not as if I’m really needed there. Besides, making up duty rosters and inspecting troops is dull work compared to fighting a battle.”

Sano knew that many soldiers had had problems readjusting to ordinary life after the war; they were restless, inclined to brawl among themselves and drink too much. But he didn’t care for Nakai’s attitude. Hirata and the detectives looked askance at Nakai: Samurai were supposed to follow orders and not complain.

“After all I’ve done for Lord Matsudaira, I deserve more.” Nakai obviously thought his accomplishments entitled him to a reward, even though his lord didn’t owe him a thing for doing his duty. He seemed unaware of his audience’s disapproval. “Many men who killed fewer enemy troops than I did have been promoted, but not me.” Bitterness colored his tone. “My family has distant cousins who fought on Yanagisawa’s side. I’m tainted by bad blood, through no fault of my own.”

Sano thought that was possible, for political ties mattered. But most likely Nakai’s superiors had passed him over in favor of men less skilled at combat with better social graces, who had the sense not to show themselves in a bad light to the shogun’s second-in-command.

“I’ve been a faithful servant to Lord Matsudaira. All I want is for him to recognize that. I don’t care about a bigger stipend.” Nakai donned a noble, martyred air. “All I ask is a chance to serve Lord Matsudaira in a higher capacity, where I can do even more for him than I already have.”

Sano seized the opening in his tirade: “Now is your chance. Lord Matsudaira has ordered me to investigate the death of Chief Ejima. I would appreciate your help.”

“Of course,” Nakai said, disconcerted; he obviously hadn’t expected to get his wish in this way. “What can I do for you?”

Below the balcony, across the audience that covered the ground, the wrestlers finished their ritual and marched out of the ring. The announcer shouted the names of the wrestlers who would fight the first match. The drums clamored. Two massive wrestlers, stripped to their loincloths, crouched at opposite ends of the ring. Anticipation stirred the crowds.