Shinju (23 page)

S
unset had turned the western sky to a clear, lavender-streaked gold by the time Sano and Tsunehiko reached the inland village of Totsuka. Although Totsuka was the sixth Tōkaido station and the usual stopping place for travelers who had left Edo in early morning, Sano had hoped to push on farther. He wanted to shake their still-unseen pursuer, if indeed one existed. But night was fast approaching, wrapping the land in its chill darkness. He and Tsunehiko were cold, tired, and hungry; the horses, too, needed warmth, rest, and food.

“We'll spend the night here,” Sano said after they'd cleared the checkpoint at the entrance to Totsuka.

Tsunehiko, who had turned glum and silent from fatigue, smiled again. “Oh, good,
Yoriki
Sano-
san
,” he said with a heartfelt sigh of relief.

Totsuka's thatch-roofed inns, restaurants, and teahouses stood side by side along the Tōkaido. Lanterns burned cheerily against the encroaching night. From the doorway of each establishment, pretty “waitresses”—the illegal and officially nonexistent village prostitutes—beckoned to the travelers. Earlier arrivals carried baggage into inns and drank in the teahouses. Medicine sellers hawked their salves and potions. A band of pilgrims peered into a religious-supply shop. Snatches of song and music burst from fenced courtyards, where the inns' customers had already begun
their parties. Surrounding the commercial district, the villagers' houses nestled cozily among the trees.

Sano and Tsunehiko rode up the street in search of lodgings. They bypassed the stately, templelike edifices reserved for daimyo and court nobles. Near the middle of town, they found a small, modest inn whose front door opened directly onto the street. Its cylindrical orange lanterns bore the name Ryokan Gorobei. Signs advertised low prices for room and board; but the building seemed tidy and in good repair. The floor of its entranceway was swept clean, and its back wall was decorated with a shrine to Jizo, patron god of travelers and children. The fat little god sat on his shelf, surrounded by rice cakes, cups of sake, and burning oil lamps.

“This will do,” Sano said, dismounting.

Before he led the way inside, he looked backward. Was it just his imagination that made him think the watcher pursued them? He saw the familiar faces of travelers they'd met on the road, but none with whom he could associate that malignant presence. Trying to shed his anxiety, he told himself that soon he and Tsunehiko would be safe within four walls.

“Welcome to the Ryokan Gorobei, welcome!” The smiling innkeeper rushed out of his living quarters in back of the entrance-way to greet them. Short, bald, and rotund, he looked a bit like Jizo himself. He bowed and said, “Thank you for choosing my humble inn. I am Gorobei, and I will do everything in my power to make your stay a pleasant one.”

He brought them a register to sign, then called to the stable boy, who ran out to take charge of the horses. Then he picked up one of Jizo's lamps and led Sano and Tsunehiko into the storage room. They left most of their baggage there, keeping with them only the things they would need that night. Tsunehiko hung his swords on the rack with those of the other guests, but Sano hesitated, his hand on the scabbard of his long sword. What if the watcher should make an appearance tonight?

“You need not worry about leaving your weapons, master,”
said the innkeeper. “Very, very safe here. Ryokan Gorobei has its own nightwatchman.”

“No reflection on your establishment, but I'd rather keep them with me,” Sano told him.

Gorobei led them across a small but pretty garden to the guest quarters. Climbing the steps of a narrow veranda, he slid open a door. The room, just large enough to sleep two men, was bare and clean. Its only furnishings were the tatami mats, a charcoal brazier, and a wall cabinet to hold bedding and the guests' personal items. Gorobei lit the brazier and the lamps that stood beside it. Then he smiled and bowed.

“I hope these poor lodgings will serve, masters. The bathhouse and privy are that way.” He pointed. “Please let me know if there is anything you need.” With another bow, he bustled off toward the entranceway, where voices indicated that another party had arrived.

Once bathed, dressed in a comfortable robe, and enclosed in the warm, bright little room, Sano felt his tension melt away. Physical comfort made all threats seem distant and unreal.

“I'm starving,” Tsunehiko announced, wheezing as he knelt beside the brazier. “When do we eat?”

As if in answer to his question, the door slid open. A maid entered on her knees. She bowed, then gave them two trays that held generous portions of fish, rice, vegetables, and soup. Sano, weary of scrutinizing every face he saw, was glad that inns had no public dining rooms and guests ate in their own quarters. The maid poured the tea and sake, then withdrew.

“Good stuff,” Tsunehiko mumbled, his mouth full.

Sano nodded in agreement. The rice was fragrant, the vegetables and soup well seasoned and savory. Ryokan Gorobei offered good value for its prices. He must remember to leave a generous tip. The knot of worry in his stomach loosened, releasing a voracious hunger. He ate almost as much as Tsunehiko, leaving only
a portion of untouched radish pickle for his disappointed secretary to finish.

“My, it's noisy,” Tsunehiko remarked as they finished their last cups of sake. “What are they doing over there?”

He leaned over and started to slide back the window panel.

“Don't—” Sano flung out a hand to stop him.

Tsunehiko looked around in surprise. “Why not?”

Sano dropped his hand. “Never mind,” he said. He didn't want to reveal their whereabouts, but he couldn't resist looking outside. Maybe this time he would see the watcher. “Go ahead.”

Tsunehiko opened the window. The laughter and music that had grown steadily louder during their meal rushed in on a cold gust of wind. Sano looked across the garden toward the other guest rooms. Through the open window of one, he saw a group of samurai. A woman in bright kimono, probably the inn's “waitress,” knelt in their midst, playing the samisen. One of the samurai struck a clownish pose and began to sing in an off-key voice. The others roared with laughter. In another room, two priests chanted sutras. Sano turned his gaze to another wing that stood a little apart from the rest. Was the watcher one of those shadowy forms silhouetted in flickering lamplight against the translucent windows? Or was he staying at another inn, ready to pick up their trail in the morning? Maybe he lurked somewhere in the darkness beyond the village. Safe within his own cozy room, listening to the ordinary noises, Sano could almost believe that the watcher posed no danger to them.

Almost.

Tsunehiko yawned. “I'm so tired,” he said.

Sano yawned, too. His body's need for sleep was fast overcoming his mind's desire to stay alert. When the maid returned to fetch the trays, he asked her to set out their bedding. Then he put on his cloak and swords.

“I'm going out for some fresh air,” he told Tsunehiko. He
didn't want to frighten his secretary, but he wanted to take one last look for the watcher, and assure himself that they would be safe for the night.

Outside, he made a circuit of the courtyard, which had grown quiet as the parties wound down and the guests prepared for bed. He looked out onto the deserted street. A few lanterns still burned outside the teahouses and inns. On the way back to his own door, Sano greeted the nightwatchman, a younger version of Gorobei who must be the innkeeper's son. Otherwise he saw no one. He no longer felt the watcher's presence. Was his own fatigue making him less sensitive to it?

Back inside the room, he locked the windows and doors, frowning at the flimsy wooden catches designed more to ensure privacy than security. Tsunehiko already lay asleep on the floor, his fat body hidden under the quilt with only the top of his head showing. His daytime wheezes had turned into soft, phlegmy snores. Sano shed his cloak and swords and extinguished the lamps. He lay down on his futon, drawing the quilt over himself. As drowsiness descended upon him, he heard the rhythmic beat of the night-watchman's wooden clappers signaling “All is well.” But his hand reached out from under the quilt, toward the weapons that lay beside him. With his last conscious effort, he grasped the hilt of his long sword and unsheathed it.

Sano slept.

In the garden of the Ryokan Gorobei, the watcher waited behind a spreading pine tree. As midnight drew near, lamps no longer burned in the guest quarters. The inn's grounds lay in almost total darkness, illuminated only by a diffuse glow from the star-pricked sky. Shrubs and buildings loomed blackly over gravel paths that gave back a dim reflection of the starlight. Only the wind's restless movement animated the night, rattling the darkened paper lanterns and the trees' bare branches.

Then footsteps crunched on the path. A yellow light rounded one wing of the guest quarters. The nightwatchman appeared, lantern slung over one arm, clappers in his hands, and a sturdy wooden club hanging from his sash. He was making his rounds, as he had done without pause since sundown. He strolled past the buildings, stopping beside each door.

In the lantern's light, the watcher could see the man's round, cheerful face beneath his straw hat, see his breath clouding the cold air. He held his own breath, willing himself to become part of the tree that hid him. But he had no real fear of discovery yet. He knew from long observation that the man came into the garden every third round and only as far as its edge during the others. He exhaled when, just as he'd expected, the man turned and passed through the gate that led to the street. A moment later, the footsteps sounded again, the light came around the building, and the whole routine repeated itself.

But now the sight of the man filled the watcher with impotent rage. How would he get inside Sano's room—and out again—without the miserable fool seeing him? He could approach the door while the nightwatchman was out in the street, but what if he was unable to force it open quickly enough? The nightwatchman would return and sound the alarm on his clappers. The whole village would awaken and descend upon the grounds like a swarm of demons.

The watcher tried to persuade himself to give up and wait for another chance, along the road tomorrow or at the next night's rest stop. But a consuming urge to finish his deed now, tonight, kept him in his place. This time, when the man finished inspecting the garden and turned toward the gate, the watcher moved out from behind the tree.

His hands grasped the man's neck. He squeezed, crushing the soft, warm flesh and rigid sinew.

The man let out a choked cry. He stiffened and dropped his
lantern and clappers. His body thrashed; his legs flailed. He gasped and wheezed, fighting for air. His fingers clawed the watcher's, trying frantically to break their grip.

The watcher held fast, clenching his teeth with the effort. He barely felt the pain as those scratching nails tore at his knuckles. Soon the man's struggles weakened. His gasps ceased; his hands dropped. He twitched for a moment more, then went limp. The watcher eased the lifeless body to the ground and dragged it into the shrubbery. He snuffed out the fallen lantern. Darkness enveloped him in its protective cloak. A sense of absolute power swelled inside him. No one stood in his way now.

He moved across the garden toward Sano's door.

Screams and moans echoed in Sano's ears as he walked again through the foul-smelling corridors of Edo Jail. This time his guide was not Mura the
eta
but Magistrate Ogyu, his black ceremonial robes sweeping the filthy floor.

Ogyu stopped at the end of the corridor and threw open a door. “Come,
Yoriki
Sano,” he called, his high, reedy voice nearly drowned out by the cries of the prisoners. “Come and experience the fate of those who disobey orders and leave their obligations unfulfilled!”

Sano didn't want to go. He didn't want to know what lay beyond that door. But an unseen force propelled him down the corridor. Almost sobbing with terror, he fell to his knees, seizing the magistrate's robes.

“Please … no …”

Ogyu laughed. “Where is your samurai courage now,
Yoriki
Sano?” he mocked.

With a mighty kick, he sent Sano flying through the door to land inside the room on hands and knees. Sano cried out, once in surprise, then again in shock at the sight that met his eyes.

Inside the morgue, Mura and Dr. Ito stood on either side of a dissection table. Mura held a long razor and had a white cloth tied
over the lower half of his face. As Dr. Ito raised a beckoning hand, Sano noticed something that turned him sick with fear.

The table was empty. Waiting. For him.

“No!” Sano screamed.

The watcher stealthily mounted the stairs of the veranda outside Sano's door. His straw sandals made no noise, but each footfall produced a soft creak as his weight bore down on the wooden planks. He tried the door.

Locked. He unsheathed his dagger. Sliding it between door and frame, he pushed on the catch. It gave way with a crack that almost startled him into dropping the dagger. He froze, listening.

Only muffled snores came from inside the room. The noise hadn't awakened them. Slowly, carefully, the watcher slid back the door. Dagger in hand, he squinted into the darkness of the room. There he could barely make out the two sleeping forms.

Now …

A loud gurgling sound awoke Sano. Suddenly Ogyu, Mura, Dr. Ito, and the morgue vanished. Sano gave a hoarse yell of surprise as he sat bolt upright in the darkness. Through the clinging haze of sleep, he saw a shadowy figure moving toward him. He cried out again, this time in sheer terror, as he instinctively lashed out at it with the sword that he still gripped in his hand. The figure leaped backward, turned, disappeared. Sano's blade sliced empty air. Running footsteps shook the floor, then faded into the distance.

Sano struggled free of the tangled bedcovers and jumped to his feet, sword ready. Fully awake now, he strained to see his surroundings and remember where he was. His heart still pounded; the lurid dream images of Edo Jail and the menacing intruder were still vivid in his memory. In his confusion, it took him a moment to recognize the dim confines of his room at the inn. All was quiet and peaceful. His fear should have subsided, yet he experienced
the frightening conviction that something was very wrong. Every fiber of his being vibrated in alarm.