“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Sano demanded.
“I don’t tell you everything.” Toda smiled wryly. “Need I keep reminding you?”
“Something as important as that, you shouldn’t have withheld from me,” Sano said, infuriated by the spy’s attitude.
Toda shook his head, his expression pitying. “It looks as if I need to remind you that I report information to you only when it doesn’t conflict with my duty to the Tokugawa regime, of which you are a part but not the ruler.”
That Toda was correct made Sano all the more furious. “You’re evading the question. Why did you bypass me and take your news straight to the shogun?”
“Because he deserved to know.” Toda matched Sano’s belligerence. “And I didn’t trust you to deliver it to him or to anyone else who should have been informed.”
“Why not?” Sano said, feeling insulted even as his heart beat faster with apprehension.
“Forty years as a spy. While we were talking earlier, I sensed that something wasn’t right. I wondered if you already knew about the daimyo. ” Toda fixed his unblinking eye on Sano, who found it hard not to flinch. “Well?”
Your spy instincts be damned, Sano thought. “That’s ridiculous.” He tried to speak with just enough conviction; too much or too little would alert Toda that he was lying. “You’re so immersed in deceit that you smell it even when it’s not on anybody but yourself.”
Canny mirth creased the skin around Toda’s eye. “My nose hasn’t been wrong very many times, and I don’t think it is now. But listen.” His expression turned sober; he lowered his voice. “You and I have always gotten along. I consider you a friend. May I offer you some friendly advice? Whatever you’re doing, think hard about whether it’s good for you. And if it isn’t, then quit while you can.”
He glanced across the garden to the gate, where the crowd of officials had gathered. “Well, well, look who’s risen from the dead.”
Amid the officials, exchanging bows and greetings with them, stood Yanagisawa. Shocked to see him after all these months, Sano stared. He forgot Toda and moved toward Yanagisawa, compelled by the forces that had drawn them together, pushed them apart, and pitted them against each other for fourteen years.
The crowd melted away. Alone, Sano and Yanagisawa stood at arm’s length. Sano saw how gaunt Yanagisawa was, how he’d still managed to retain his looks. The air thickened with bitter memories of the wounds they’d dealt each other. But Yanagisawa’s mood seemed indifferent as he examined Sano. He looked like he’d walked through fire and had all the emotion seared out of him. But Sano never trusted appearances when it came to Yanagisawa. His mind teemed with questions that he couldn’t ask outright. For almost a year he’d planned for this moment, but now that it had come, he was speechless.
“It’s been a long time,” Yanagisawa said. His suave voice had the tired quality of a convalescent’s.
“Yes,” Sano said, “it has.”
The banal words were incongruous with the fact that they’d once rolled in the dirt trying to kill each other. Sano pitied Yanagisawa terribly: He’d undergone the worst experience a parent could-the death of a child. Sano felt guilty because his investigation had created the circumstances that had been fatal for Yoritomo. He couldn’t blame Yanagisawa for blaming him. But he couldn’t forget that Yanagisawa had tried to kill Masahiro and almost succeeded. Anger and hatred adulterated his compassion. He couldn’t be sorry that Yanagisawa had been disgraced and demoted by the shogun, whereas Sano had been promoted and acclaimed.
“What brings you here?” Sano needed to know why Yanagisawa had finally reemerged and what it meant for himself.
“I’m getting back into circulation,” Yanagisawa said. “It’s time.”
Time for what? Sano wondered. To end his mourning for Yoritomo? To take up his quest for power again? Or to avenge Yoritomo’s death? Whatever the reason, the time couldn’t have been worse for Sano. He had a murder investigation to conduct in secret, a clandestine deal with Lord Hosokawa, and a possible revolt on his hands. The last thing he needed was Yanagisawa complicating matters.
“Have you seen the shogun yet?” Sano asked.
“Not yet. I was just about to go in and pay him my respects.”
Sano stepped aside, clearing Yanagisawa’s way to the door. Yanagisawa circled around Sano, who turned to keep him in sight. The specter of Yoritomo lying with his throat cut in a pool of blood loomed between them, as palpable as if made flesh. Sano didn’t want to mention Yoritomo; nothing could ease the pain of such a loss. But certain words must be said. Courtesy demanded them. So did Sano’s own need to express the thoughts that had weighed on his mind for almost a year.
“I never had a chance to tell you how sorry I am about Yoritomo,” Sano said. “May I offer my condolences?”
A breath inflated Yanagisawa’s chest. Although his mild expression didn’t change, Sano sensed a swell of emotions within him. Sano braced himself, aware that if a man he blamed for his child’s death should dare to express sympathy, he would explode into violent rage.
“You may.” Not a sign of rancor did Yanagisawa display. “I gratefully accept.”
Sano was so unbalanced by Yanagisawa’s reaction that he had to grope for something else to say. “Yoritomo was a good man. His death was a tragedy.”
“Yes,” Yanagisawa said. “Thank you.”
Perhaps grief had reformed Yanagisawa from an evil schemer into a decent human being. Sano had seen stranger things happen. He came out with a speech that his conscience needled him to make.
“I’m sorry for my part in the trouble that cost Yoritomo his life.” But Sano couldn’t help thinking that it had been Yoritomo’s own actions that had ultimately gotten him killed. He’d gone over and over the events leading up to the scene, and he always concluded that if he had it to do again, given the same facts that had been available to him then, he would have done everything the same. “I never meant for Yoritomo to be harmed. If I could change the past and bring him back, I would.” But Sano wasn’t sorry not to have Yoritomo plotting against him. Even though he meant every word of his speech, it felt false.
Yanagisawa nodded as if he accepted Sano’s words at face value. “Why don’t we just let bygones be bygones. You have more important things to think about. And so have I.”
He smiled. His eyes flashed with the old cunning and menace.
Sano’s hackles rose.
28
“What did Sano- san say?” Midori asked, entering the storehouse where Hirata sat.
Hirata looked up at his wife. Sick with shame about what had happened between him and Sano, he didn’t want to worry her. She had enough problems, caring for the family under post-earthquake conditions. “Nothing serious. He’s giving me a leave of absence.”
Midori’s eyes flared with alarm; she understood that the leave was a punishment, not a holiday. “Why? What did you do?”
“Why are you always in such a hurry to assume I did something bad?” Hirata vented his anger at himself on her.
“Why do you always criticize me when I’m right and we both know it?” Midori put her hands on her hips. She was no traditional wife who would bow to her husband’s authority or let him divert her from a topic he didn’t want to discuss. “Tell me what you did!”
Hirata didn’t like giving in to her, but it wasn’t fair to keep her in the dark. If things kept going the way they were, she would share the consequences. “Sano- san gave me a job to do. I let him down.” It made Hirata feel as low and dirty as a worm. Samurai had committed ritual suicide for similar offenses. Perhaps he should, too. That would get him out of the secret society, but it would create other, disastrous problems.
Midori opened her mouth. She looked from side to side, caught between anger and confusion and unable to decide which to express. “Why didn’t you do what he told you to?” She studied Hirata’s face. “Don’t tell me-I can guess. It was those friends of yours, wasn’t it? Yes! I knew it!”