Sano closed his eyes briefly. Self-disgust withered him. Inexperienced as he was, he’d mishandled the interview. Cherry Eater wouldn’t tell him anything now. He could hardly arrest the man for refusing to answer questions about what was officially a suicide, and he didn’t even dare arrest him for selling contraband artwork or insulting a police officer. Magistrate Ogyu had already made it clear that he didn’t want his yoriki doing doshin’s work. Besides, he couldn’t let Ogyu learn that he was investigating the deaths of Noriyoshi and Yukiko until he could prove they were murders.

“I didn’t intend any offense,” he said, hating to offer apologies in return for insults and teasing, but hoping to placate Cherry Eater enough to let him see where Noriyoshi had lived. He wanted to get some feeling for the man and an idea about what could have driven someone to kill him. “I didn’t come to arrest you or demean your character. I only want information for my records, and you’ve been most cooperative. Now I ask you to grant me a small request. May I see Noriyoshi’s living quarters?”

“Of course, sir.” Cherry Eater seemed glad for an excuse to stop talking about Noriyoshi’s women and enemies. He slid open a section of the wall to reveal a dim passageway. “This way.”

Sano followed him down the passage and out into a narrow dirt courtyard. One side was bounded by the wall of the shop next door. Along the other ran a flimsy shedlike building with a narrow veranda. At the back, a privy, a woodpile, and a row of ceramic storage urns stood against a bamboo fence. The bitter, acrid smell of ink overlaid the more familiar odors of sewage and sawdust. Cherry Eater led him past the shed. Through its open doors, Sano could see three identical cubicles. In each, an artist knelt at a sloping desk. One was cutting lines in a block of wood with a metal gouge. A second inked a finished block and pressed it against a sheet of white paper. The other was adding color to a finished print.

Cherry Eater stopped before the closed door of a fourth cubicle. “Noriyoshi’s,” he said, sliding it open.

Sano entered, stepping around the two pairs of wooden sandals on the veranda. His head grazed the low ceiling. Like the others, the room was very small; the desk against one wall took up much of the floor and left just enough space for a man to sleep. Frayed, sawdust-strewn mats covered the floor. Beside the desk a wooden toolbox lay open, revealing a collection of knives, picks, and gouges. A fresh block of wood sat on the desk. Next to it was an ink sketch, and a pot of crusty, dried wheat paste with a brush stuck in it. Noriyoshi had evidently been preparing to transfer the drawing to the woodblock for carving. Sano did a double take when he looked at the sketch. It was a shunga piece, in the same style as those in the shop, but featuring two men.

“A special edition for a special client, heh, heh.” Cherry Eater hovered at Sano’s elbow, grinning and rubbing his hands together. “Samurai often have an interest in such things, no?”

Sano ignored the hint. Although he had never practiced manly love, nor wanted to, he shared the prevailing opinion of this and other sexual matters: whatever people do in private is all right as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone else. Besides, he was tired of the art dealer’s innuendos and didn’t much care what Cherry Eater thought of him or his class. He turned to a battered wooden cabinet that stood against the wall opposite the desk.

The mended garments, worn bedding, chipped crockery, and collection of inks, brushes, charcoal sticks, and sketches he found inside told him nothing he didn’t already know: that Noriyoshi had been an artist of some talent and limited income. Sano was finishing a cursory inspection of some cotton kimonos when his hand touched something hard. He pulled out a small drawstring pouch. Its weight surprised him-until he opened it and saw the gold koban inside. There must have been at least thirty of the shiny oval coins, enough to keep a large family in comfort for a year. Surely too much for a poor artist to possess, or to earn by legitimate means.

“Do you know where this came from?” Sano asked Cherry Eater.

With amazing swiftness, Cherry Eater’s hand flicked out and snatched the pouch. He tucked it into his coat, saying, “It’s mine. Noriyoshi sometimes collected payments for me.”

Sano looked from the proprietor’s innocent face to his feet. Frustration mounted as he watched them shift: Cherry Eater was lying again. Sano resisted the impulse to beat the truth out of the man. His better instincts told him to have patience and seek another path to knowledge. If he didn’t find it, he could always come back to the shop.

“Thank you for your kind cooperation,” he said. “May I have a word with your employees now?” Maybe they could tell him more about Noriyoshi’s activities.

A short time later, Sano walked back through the passage to the shopfront more frustrated than ever. The three artists, all at least twenty years younger than Noriyoshi, had not known their colleague well. They’d only worked there for a year since coming to Edo from the provinces, they said; he hadn’t spent much time with them, and they didn’t know where he went or with whom he associated during his leisure hours. Sano questioned each man alone, and he thought they were telling the truth. If Noriyoshi’s friends proved as close-mouthed as Cherry Eater, he would have to canvass the whole quarter in search of someone who could and would give him more information. Maybe Tsunehiko could help, he thought without much hope. He wondered where the boy was.

When he reached the shop, he found Cherry Eater talking to a frail, bald man who stood outside in the street. The man carried a long staff in one hand and a wooden flute in the other. Their voices were low, urgent.

Cherry Eater, seeing Sano, abruptly stopped talking. He said to the man, “Go now. We’ll talk again later.”

But the man reached out a hand to Sano. “Master samurai! I am Healing Hands, the best blind masseur in Edo! Do you have pains, or nervous complaints? Allow me to relieve them for you! My skills are legendary, my price low.” He cast his sightless eyes up at Sano. Cloudy and pale, they resembled those of a dead fish.

Sano wondered how the blind man knew he was a samurai. Cherry Eater must have told him, or maybe Healing Hands had smelled his hair oil. The blind did have sharp noses.

“I can entertain you with stories while I work, master,” the masseur went on. “Would you like to hear an example?”

Without prompting, he launched into his narrative. “ ‘The Dog Shogun. ’ ” His scratchy voice took on a sing-song quality. “Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, although an able ruler and a great man, has so far failed to produce an heir. His mother, the Lady Keisho-in, sought the advice of the Buddhist priest Ryuko. He told her that in order for Tsunayoshi to father a son, he must first atone for the sins of his ancestors. Together Lady Keisho-in and Ryuko persuaded Tsunayoshi that since he was born in the Year of the Dog, he should do this by issuing an edict protecting dogs.

“Now stray dogs must be fed and cared for. Fighting dogs are separated not with blows, but with a splash of cold water. Those who injure dogs are imprisoned; anyone who kills a dog is executed. And we must treat all dogs with respect. Like this!”

Healing Hands hurried over to a dog that was trotting along the street in front of the shop. He must have smelled the animal, or heard its nails clicking against the hard earth. Bowing low, he cried, “Greetings, O Inu-sama, Honorable Dog!” Then he turned to Sano. “I know many other tales, master. Would you like to hear them while you enjoy a most beneficial massage?”

Sano smiled, wondering if Healing Hands’s massages were any better than his stories. The one about the Dog Shogun was old news; everyone had heard it when Tokugawa Tsunayoshi had issued his first Dog Protection Edict two years ago. The nation’s shock and bewilderment had given way to unvoiced resentment of the money wasted on dog welfare, and the outrageous penalties inflicted on people who abused them.