“Not today,” he said. Then, on impulse, he asked, “Did you know Noriyoshi?”

Cherry Eater broke in before Healing Hands could answer. “Yoriki, my friend here has an urgent appointment soon.” To Healing Hands he said, “Had you not better hurry?” His feet began to shift, and his fluttering hands told Sano how anxious he was to have his friend gone.

Healing Hands ignored the hint and leaned comfortably on his staff. “Oh, yes, master,” he said. “Noriyoshi was a kind man. He sent much business my way. He knew everyone, you see-great lords, wealthy merchants.”

“Who was his lady friend?” Sano asked. Thanks to the masseur’s garrulity, he might learn something today after all.

“Oh, you mean Wisteria? She works in the Palace of the Heavenly Garden, on Naka-no-cho. She-”

“Shut up, you fool! Say the wrong thing, and he’ll have the doshin throw you in jail!”

At Cherry Eater’s sharp outburst, the masseur fell silent. Sketching an apologetic gesture at Sano, he said uneasily, “I must go now, master.” He turned and shuffled off down the street, tootling on his wooden flute to attract customers.

Sano took his leave of Cherry Eater and hurried after Healing Hands. He asked about Noriyoshi’s enemies, and if any rumors about his death had reached the masseur’s ears.

But Healing Hands had taken Cherry Eater’s warning to heart. “Go and see Wisteria,” was all he would say.

Sano gazed at the masseur’s retreating back. This trip, while disappointing, hadn’t been a total loss. He’d learned the names of Noriyoshi’s associates and lady friend, that the artist had indeed had enemies and had somehow come by a large amount of money. Any of these facts could lead to Noriyoshi’s murderer. Sano and Tsunehiko would have to stay in Yoshiwara until nightfall, when the Palace of the Heavenly Garden and the other pleasure houses opened. They could catch the late ferry back to Edo.

Then Sano remembered. Tonight was to be his first visit to his family since he’d left home. At once the burden of obligation crushed him with all its suffocating pressure. He couldn’t bear to postpone his inquiry just when it seemed most promising. Neither did he relish the thought of facing his parents while knowing he was defying his master’s orders and risking the secure future they desired for him. To disappoint his parents-especially his father- was to fail in his duty as a son.

Sighing, he headed down the street to find Tsunehiko and tell him it was time to return to the city.

A little before the dinner hour, Sano arrived in the district where his parents lived on the edge of Nihonbashi nearest the castle, among other samurai families who had gone into trade and merged with the townspeople.

He rode through the gate that led to their street, nodding a greeting to the two guards stationed there. A short bridge took him over the willow-edged canal. At its opposite side, the road ran through a strip of debris-strewn ground where a recent fire had destroyed two houses on either side of the road. Sano looked upon the sight with sorrow. His father’s last letter had told him about the fire, which had killed members of all four families and destroyed their businesses. As he continued down the street, he wondered what other changes had come about since he’d moved away. He passed the grocer’s, the stationer’s and several food stalls, coming to a stop at the corner, outside the Sano Martial Arts Academy.

The academy occupied a long, low wooden building that stood flush with the street. Dingy brown tiles, the same color as the walls, covered the roof. Plain wooden bars screened the windows. A faded sign announced the academy’s name. The place seemed both older and smaller than when he’d last seen it only a month ago. He dismounted in the gathering dusk, tied his horse’s reins to the railing that bordered the narrow veranda, then entered. A wave of nostalgia swept over him.

In the practice room, oil lamps mounted on the wall lit the winter darkness. Two rows of young men dressed in loose cotton jackets and trousers faced each other in simulated combat. One row wielded wooden blades that substituted for actual steel swords, while the others parried the sword thrusts with a variety of weapons-staffs, spears, chains, iron fans. Their shouts and stamps echoed against the walls in a deafening roar. Sano breathed in the familiar combination of smells-sweat, hair oil, damp plaster, and old wood-feeling at once comforted and sad. He couldn’t remember a time when the place had not been home to him. As a boy, he’d learned his fighting skills under his father’s strict tutelage, beginning as soon as he was big enough to hold a child-sized sword. Later, as a young man, he’d instructed his own pupils. He’d planned to manage the school himself someday, in the way that any oldest or only son would take over the family business upon his father’s retirement.

But the school had not prospered. This was partly because many samurai no longer bothered perfecting their military skills or having their sons trained. However, the main cause lay with the academy itself. Unaffiliated with a major clan, it received no stipend, and Sano’s father had to pay the authorities for permission to operate. Lacking wealthy patrons and a prestigious location, and using teaching techniques learned from an obscure master with a small following, the academy attracted fewer pupils every year. Soon there weren’t enough to occupy both Sano and his father. Sano had begun tutoring to earn his keep and contribute to his family’s support. This year Sano’s father had announced that upon his death the school would be turned over to his apprentice, Aoki Koemon-the sensei leading this class. Shortly afterward, he had taken Sano to see Katsuragawa Shundai about a government position.

“Sano-san!” Koemon came toward him, smiling. Bowing low, he said, “Good evening.”

Sano greeted his old friend. They’d grown up together, but as adults Koemon always addressed Sano with the respect due him as the master’s son. Now, seeing Koemon looking relaxed and confident in the world he himself had left behind, Sano experienced a twinge of envy. His past was closed to him; he couldn’t go back. The present, with its greater financial rewards and troubling conflicts, was all he had.

“So what do you think?” Koemon asked, gesturing toward the class.

Contemplating the students, whose faces were familiar, and the array of weapons, which was not, Sano nodded. “Times have changed,” he said.

He and his father and Koemon had debated for several years whether to include nontraditional weapons in the school’s curriculum. His father, a strict devotee of kenjutsu, had wanted to limit instruction to the art of swordsmanship.

“Nowadays a samurai must be prepared to face opponents armed with a variety of weapons, and besides, the school must offer something new to attract pupils.” Sano repeated the arguments that he and Koemon had used to counter the old man’s opposition. But seeing that the change had been made in his absence gave him an inexplicable touch of uneasiness that he forgot when he noticed the weapon that Koemon held.

“You teach the art of the jitte?” he asked.

Koemon shrugged. “The basics. I’m no expert at it.”

More out of curiosity than need, Sano had experimented with the jitte in the practice hall at the barracks. “Let’s try it now,” he said, shedding his cloak and hat and rolling up his sleeves.

With Koemon using a wooden sword in deliberate slow motion, Sano demonstrated how to deflect its blade, and how to deliver counterblows with the jitte.

“Parry like this,” he said, raising the jitte to block a cut to his shoulder. “Counterstrike before your opponent recovers- quickly, because his reach is longer than yours.”