Magistrate Ogyu bent to examine the stone bench that stood outside his tea ceremony cottage. Although the morning sunlight revealed no dirt, he ran his finger over its surface. He held the finger close to his eyes, frowning at the almost invisible film of dust on his skin.

“Clean this bench immediately,” he said to the servant who hovered at his elbow. “Lady Niu will be arriving soon. Everything must be perfect.”

“Yes, master.” The servant began to sweep the bench with a small broom.

Ogyu turned to inspect the garden. He needed to make sure the gardeners had cleared away the dead branches from the flagstone path and arranged leaves in an attractive pattern on the pond. But his movement crackled the paper tucked into his sash. Unwillingly, but also unable to stop himself, he drew out Lady Niu’s letter, which he’d received yesterday. He read it for what must be the twentieth time, skipping over the formal salutations to the heart of her message:

In view of recent events, I feel it is imperative that we meet and plan our strategy for dealing with their ramifications.

The “events” she referred to could only be Sano Ichirō’s secret visit to the Temple of Kannon and the murder of the boy Tsunehiko. Ogyu’s spies had reported both to him, the only out-of-the-ordinary things to happen over the past three days. He wondered why Sano had told the seemingly pointless lie about Mishima. But whatever the reason, it was a matter between superior and subordinate, best handled privately. Tsunehiko’s death was an unfortunate but all too common highway tragedy. What had these incidents to do with Lady Niu?

Ogyu could only guess. His uncertainty had kept him awake last night and soured his stomach; he still felt nauseated despite the infusion of bamboo ash he’d taken. Added to his worries was the disturbing news that one of his Edo informers had brought just this morning: Sano had not stopped investigating the shinjū . The day before he left, he’d interviewed both the actor and a wrestler. Ogyu didn’t think Lady Niu had found out yet; his informers in those quarters were better than anyone’s except the shogun’s. But he knew she soon would, and that she would blame him for not seeing that Sano followed orders. The thought of her displeasure worsened Ogyu’s sickness. Hot, acrid bile rose in his throat as he remembered how she could ruin him if she chose. A curse on Sano Ichirō, that stubborn, disobedient fool! Would that he’d never seen the man!

Cramming the letter back into his sash, Ogyu tried to dismiss his worries. He could handle Lady Niu. He need only practice the skills he’d honed to perfection over the years. Manipulation. Verbal swordplay. Spotting the advantage and seizing it before his adversary had even noticed. Using the adversary’s own strengths and weaknesses as weapons. And he could favor his triumph over Lady Niu by making sure the stage was properly set for their confrontation. He turned his attention to the tea ceremony cottage.

The small, boxy hut, with its thatched roof, rough earth walls, and bamboo mullions, looked like a farmhouse uprooted and transported to Edo. Ogyu usually enjoyed the contrast between it and his urban mansion. He enjoyed the effect of rustic simplicity, which he’d spared no expense to create. Money, he often thought, could buy even peace and serenity.

But today, his apprehension wouldn’t let him regard the cottage with his usual complacence. The leafless garden seemed bare and unappealing. He’d planted cherry trees for spring, annuals for summer, and maples for autumn, but he’d neglected to include evergreens for winter. The ancient stone lanterns looked dingy and worn instead of picturesque. He’d spent hours placing the stepping stones that led to the cottage in an artistically irregular line. Now he had a sudden urge to rearrange them. The cottage’s design didn’t meet his approval, either. The kneeling entrance was too high, the windows too small. As the threat of Lady Niu’s impending visit eroded his confidence, he saw the tea cottage for what it was: the second-rate creation of a dilettante who fancied himself a tea master.

Ogyu felt a spurt of impotent rage toward Lady Niu and Sano Ichirō, both of whom had so seriously disturbed his tranquillity of late. He sought an outlet for his rage.

“Come here, you!” he shouted to his servant. “See this spot you missed.” He pointed to a tiny streak of dirt on one of the otherwise immaculate stepping stones. “Attend to it at once, and if your work is not perfect from now on, I will dismiss you!”

“Yes, master. Right away, master.” The servant hurried to obey.

The fear in the man’s eyes restored Ogyu’s sense of power. Now he could picture himself emerging victorious from his clash with Lady Niu, just as he had from every difficult situation that had arisen in his long life. Smiling, he followed the stepping stones- which looked fine now-to the cottage. He slipped off his shoes and slid open the door to the kneeling entrance that stood at thigh height above the ground, designed to induce humility in tea ceremony guests. Ordinarily he would enter the cottage through the server’s door in the rear, which led to the kitchen. But he wanted to view the cottage from Lady Niu’s perspective. As he climbed inside, his smile widened. Today this entrance would serve another purpose. Lady Niu must kneel when she approached him, as she never would on any other occasion. The opening advantage would be his.

Inside the cottage, Ogyu cast an approving eye around the room. Flecks of straw gleamed in walls made of red-ochre earth. The central pillar was a slender tree trunk, irregularly shaped but polished to a subtle gloss. Rich woodgrain veined the unpainted rafters and columns. In the alcove, a scroll bearing a winter haiku hung above a crude black vase made by a primitive Korean potter. Yes, everything about the room met the highest standards of tea culture.

Ogyu had added one special touch, though, which he considered an improvement over traditional tea cottage design. Hidden beneath wooden grills, three sunken charcoal braziers burned. Ogyu saw no reason to sacrifice comfort for rusticity. In winter, the heat from the hearth, a square burner set in the floor by the host’s place, was hardly adequate.

He went into the tiny kitchen and took from the cabinet a tea whisk and bowl, a box of the finest powdered green tea, ladle, napkins, slop jar, and water vessel. He filled the water vessel from an urn that held his water supply, then carried it into the main room and set it on the hearth to boil. The other items he arranged on a lacquer tray on the serving mat by the hearth. Then he knelt to wait for Lady Niu. As he often did before a tea ceremony, he relived his odyssey from his parents’ country home to this cottage, just as rustic but far more costly.

He had been born Asashio Banzan, son of a minor vassal of a minor Tokugawa ally. In a province ravaged by civil war, he and his family had lived like peasants. As a precocious eight-year-old, he’d won the favor of his teacher at the fief’s samurai school, and ultimately of the lord, with his scholarly aptitude. The prize: a job as page at Edo Castle.

At Edo Castle, he’d been physically the weakest and smallest of the hundred-odd pages, but by far the cleverest. His natural instinct for exploiting the weaknesses and desires of both his elders and his peers served him well. He traded help with work for protection against bullies. He lent money, arranged liaisons with women, procured drink and drugs, and covered up his colleagues’ mistakes and misbehavior. In return, the other pages did his drudge work, and castle officials rewarded him with bonuses and choice assignments. He gave friendship in exchange for information he could use against his enemies. In this way, he’d perfected the political skills for which he was now famous. The years had seen him rise quickly to chief page, then clerk, secretary, administrator. But a man of his low origin could go no further.

Then came his marriage to the only child of one of the shogun’s chief retainers, achieved partly by flattering his prospective father-in-law, partly by conducting covert smear campaigns against his rivals. He’d taken his wife’s family name, Ogyu, and become his father-in-law’s adopted son and heir. He’d risen to the rank of councillor. When his father-in-law died, the family wealth came to Ogyu, along with the old man’s position: north magistrate of Edo.

With his spy network for eyes and ears, he’d run the city for thirty years, exercising an iron control that he hid under a guise of elegant nonchalance. Never had a hint of scandal stuck to him; he had always managed to hide the small acts of corruption he considered perquisites of his position.

Until recently, when one moment of carelessness and greed had brought him under Lady Niu’s power.

Two years ago, the shogun had issued the first Dog Protection Edicts. Violators had begun appearing in Ogyu’s courtroom. Most were poor peasants whose sentences he’d pronounced without a second thought. Then one day a well-dressed young man had come to see him.

“Magistrate Ogyu, I am the son of Kuheiji, the oil merchant,” the man said, bowing as he knelt on the floor of Ogyu’s office. “My father has been arrested for killing a dog. Tomorrow he will be brought before you for judgment and sentencing. I’m prepared to offer you a large sum in exchange for his release.”

Ogyu studied the merchant’s son, noting the signs of fear that the man’s businesslike manner couldn’t hide: restless shifting one moment, followed by unnatural stillness the next. “And what makes you think I would be open to such an offer?” he asked.

He’d accepted bribes before, but only when an offense was minor and the offender’s guilt questionable. The shogun had informed him-in person, yet-that the Dog Protection Edicts were to be enforced rigorously, with no exceptions. Ogyu could lose his position, or even his life for doing otherwise.

“I meant no insult, Magistrate.” The merchant’s son was trembling visibly now. “As a dutiful son, I am pleading with you for my father’s life and freedom. Here-I give you three hundred koban . And I swear on my own life that I will tell no one.”

Ogyu had started to wave his hand in dismissal. The hand stopped in midair as he stared at the gold coins the man spilled out of a bag and onto the floor. With this much money, he could build a summer villa in the hills. But woe on him if the shogun learned of the bargain! Then he thought: how would His Excellency ever know? The glitter of the coins helped him think of more reasons why he should accept the bribe. He began to rationalize. The dog was already dead; punishing the merchant wouldn’t bring it back to life. One small infraction of the law on Ogyu’s part wouldn’t jeopardize Tokugawa Tsunayoshi’s chances of producing an heir.