When Sano finished inspecting the racetrack and questioning the witnesses there, he and Marume and Fukida interviewed the sentries and patrol guards who’d been in the vicinity at the time of Ejima’s death. By the time they returned to his estate, night had fallen. Sano was glad to see that the crowd of people outside his gate and in his anteroom had disappeared-they’d given up on seeing him today. But when he stopped at his office to see what had happened during his absence, his aides besieged him with urgent queries and problems. Sano found himself sucked back into the whirlwind of his life, until a servant brought him two messages: Lord Matsudaira demanded to know what was taking him so long, and Hirata had arrived.

Sano went to his audience chamber and found Hirata kneeling on the floor. He was shocked to see how ill Hirata looked. Fresh guilt needled Sano.

“Would you like some refreshment?” Sano said. He regretted that the usual courtesy due any guest was all he could offer Hirata; apology or sympathy would only hurt Hirata’s pride.

“No, thank you, I’ve already eaten.” Hirata tacitly denied his obvious discomfort while reciting the polite formula.

“Well, I haven’t, and I insist that you join me,” Sano said, although time was short. He summoned a maid and told her, “Bring us dinner, and put some healing herbs in the tea. I’ve got a headache.” He didn’t, but perhaps the medicine would make Hirata feel better. After the maid departed, Sano said, “What did Dr. Ito find out?”

As Hirata told him, astonishment filled Sano. “Ejima was killed by dim-mak? Is Dr. Ito certain?”

Hirata described the fingerprint-shaped bruise, the dissection, and the blood in the brain.

“Well, I suppose there’s a first time for everything,” Sano said. “And Dr. Ito’s news jibes with what I’ve learned. All the witnesses say Ejima dropped dead for no apparent reason. The guards who were watching him through spyglasses during the race didn’t see anything hit him. No one fired a gun anywhere near the track; no bullet was found. Ejima wasn’t killed by any conventional means.” Sano felt trepidation as well as excitement. “We now know that Ejima was murdered, and how it was done. But this seriously complicates the case.”

Hirata nodded. “It means that the racetrack isn’t necessarily the crime scene. The death-touch could have been delivered to Ejima hours or days before it took effect.”

“And the suspects aren’t limited to the people who were around the track when Ejima died,” Sano said.

He and Hirata sat in silence, listening to the temple bells ringing and dogs barking in the night, the wind rising and insects singing in the garden. Sano said, “The killer is out there.” He anticipated the thrill of the hunt, but also an unprecedented challenge in the shape of an adversary who was far more skilled at martial arts than himself. “And we have no idea who he might be.”

The maid brought them a dinner of rice balls, sashimi, and pickled vegetables. Sano noticed that Hirata hardly touched the food, but he gulped the tea and seemed to revive a bit. “We have two problems that are more immediate than catching the killer,” Sano said. “First, how are we going to hide the fact that Ejima’s body was dissected?”

“I’ve already taken care of that,” Hirata said. “I had Dr. Ito’s assistant wrap up its head. Then I took it home and had my servants dress it in a white silk robe and lay it in a coffin filled with incense. When I delivered it to Ejima’s family, I told them that I’d prepared it for the funeral. The reason I gave was that I wanted to spare them the sight of Ejima’s terrible wounds. I also said I would pay for a grand funeral. I gave the family a quick look at Ejima, then sealed up the coffin. They were so grateful that I don’t think they’ll open it for a closer look.”

“Well done,” Sano said, impressed by Hirata’s ingenuity. “But I’ll pay for the funeral.” That was a small price for keeping the examination a secret.

“What’s the second problem? How to tell Lord Matsudaira that Ejima was murdered by dim-mak without saying how we found out?” Hirata said.

Sano nodded as he set aside his chopsticks. “But I have a solution. I’ll tell you on the way to the palace.”

A waxing crescent moon adorned the indigo sky over the peaked tile roofs of the palace. Flames glimmered in stone lanterns around the complex of half-timbered buildings and along the white gravel paths that crossed its lush, still gardens. Frogs sang in ponds while gunshots echoed from night target practice at the martial arts training ground. Patrolling guards wore Lord Matsudaira’s crest, asserting his place in the heart of the Tokugawa regime.

When Sano, Hirata, and detectives Marume and Fukida arrived in search of Lord Matsudaira, the sentries at the palace door directed them to the shogun’s private quarters. There they found a party in progress. Handsome boys dressed in gaudy silk robes played the samisen, flute, and drum; others danced. The shogun lolled on cushions while more boys chattered around him and plied him with wine. His taste for young males was public knowledge. That he preferred them to his wife and concubines explained why he’d failed to produce a blood heir. Near the shogun sat Lord Matsudaira and two members of the Council of Elders, which comprised the shogun’s chief advisors and the regime’s principal governing body. Lord Matsudaira knelt with his arms folded and his expression grim: He disapproved of such frivolous entertainment. The elders sipped wine and nodded their heads in time to the music.

“Well?” Lord Matsudaira said eagerly as Sano and his companions approached, knelt, and bowed. “Was it murder?”

“It was,” Sano said. The elders frowned in concern. The shogun dragged his attention away from the dancers and regarded Sano with befuddlement. His face was flushed from the wine; his hand fondled the knee of the boy seated beside him.

This was Yoritomo, the shogun’s current favorite. He was a youthful, strikingly beautiful likeness of his father, the former chamberlain. Although Lord Matsudaira had exiled Yanagisawa and his family, Yoritomo remained in Edo because the shogun had insisted on keeping him. He had Tokugawa blood-from his mother, a relative of the shogun-and rumor said he was heir apparent to the dictatorship. The shogun’s fondness protected Yoritomo from Lord Matsudaira, who wanted to eliminate everyone connected to his rival. Yoritomo smiled shyly; his large, liquid black eyes, so like his father’s, glowed with happiness at seeing Sano.

“So I was right.” Gratification swelled Lord Matsudaira’s countenance. “I knew it.”

“Who are you talking about?” the shogun said.

“Ejima, chief of the metsuke.” Lord Matsudaira barely hid his impatience. “He died this morning.”

“Ahh, yes,” the shogun said with an air of dim recollection.

“I thought Ejima took a fall at the racetrack,” said one of the elders. He was Kato Kinhide, who had a broad, leathery face with slit-like eyes and mouth. The other was Ihara Eigoro. They’d opposed Lord Matsudaira and supported Yanagisawa during the faction war. They, and some of their allies, had survived the purge by latching onto Yoritomo, who was alone at court and depended on his father’s friends for protection. But Sano knew that the protection worked both ways: Yoritomo’s influence with the shogun protected Kato, Ihara, and their clique from Lord Matsudaira. He was their foothold in the regime, the promise of another chance at gaining control over it.

“The fall didn’t kill Ejima,” Sano said.

“Then what did?” Ihara said. Short and hunched, he had a vaguely simian cast. He and Kato resented Sano because he’d declined to take their side during the faction war, and now worked closely with Lord Matsudaira. They envied him for rising above them in rank.