“Then I revoke her right.” Stabbing the air, Tsunayoshi tripped. “You may present the, ahh, testimony yourself. I shall order Magistrate Ueda to convict Haru and condemn her to death. Her execution will silence the, ahh, rumors against the Black Lotus and calm the public.”

“But it won’t stop whatever schemes the Black Lotus has set in motion.” Throwing aside caution, Sano dropped to his knees before the shogun. If only he’d heeded Reiko’s concerns earlier, he might have persuaded Tsunayoshi to act before the sect got to him. “Please, I beg you to reconsider and shut down the Black Lotus before it’s too late!”

“The only schemes are in your, ahh, imagination,” the shogun said peevishly. “I will hear no more of your slander. Stay away from the Black Lotus, or you shall be sorry.”

He slashed a sudden, horizontal cut at Sano. The blade whistled so close over Sano’s head that he felt the air current across his scalp. The attendants gasped, and Sano froze. He knew the shogun had meant to miss him, but Tsunayoshi was such an inept swordsman that he might have injured or killed Sano by accident. The tacit threat terrified Sano.

“Go now,” ordered the shogun. “Vex me no more.”

Three novice monks knelt in a row in Dr. Miwa’s secret underground chamber. “Praise the glory of the Black Lotus,” they chanted in rapid, breathless unison. Their young faces wore beatific expressions; their glazed eyes reflected images of High Priest Anraku, who stood before them.

“Your service shall be rewarded with the enlightenment you crave,” Anraku said. With a radiant smile, he laid his hand upon the head of each monk in turn. They gasped in delight and chanted faster.

Across the room, Dr. Miwa watched from beside the workbench that held the lamps, stove, dishware, utensils, and jars of herbs and potions for his experiments. He could almost feel the spiritually charged touch of Anraku’s hand and craved its blessing for himself. Somehow, Anraku always looked more real to Dr. Miwa than did anyone else. His luminosity eclipsed Kumashiro and Junketsu-in, who hovered like dim shadows on either side of him. Now, as Anraku turned toward him, Dr. Miwa trembled with the dread and gladness that his master’s attention always inspired.

“So you have finally developed the right formula?” Anraku asked.

“Yes, I believe that one of these potions will achieve the effects you desire.” Dr. Miwa pointed to three ceramic bottles on the workbench. Sweat broke out on him, and his breath whistled through his teeth. He saw revulsion on Kumashiro’s and Junketsu-in’s faces, and he despised his uncontrollable nervous tics. His hands fumbled, assembling three cups. “I shall test the potions now.”

“The formula must work,” Anraku said, his voice hard with determination. “My vision has shown me that three signs will herald the day of our destiny. Two of the signs have already come to pass. The first was the sacrifice of burnt human offerings-the fire and deaths at the cottage. The second sign was the onset of persecution against the Black Lotus faith today. The third sign will be the siege of the temple.” Anraku extended his arms, welcoming the event. His single eye shone. “Our time draws near.”

The novices chanted louder. Junketsu-in gazed at Anraku with reverent bliss. Kumashiro stood silent and stern, his hand on his sword. Dr. Miwa tried to open his senses to the divine truths that Anraku perceived. He heard pulsing bellows, the ringing axes from tunnels under excavation; he smelled rancid steam from adjoining rooms of his chamber. But supernatural awareness evaded him. He must rely on Anraku for knowledge.

“We must be ready for battle.” Anraku leveled a fierce stare upon Dr. Miwa. “Your success is crucial to our fate.”

Dr. Miwa quaked under the pressure to perform well. Most Black Lotus members believed that Anraku foretold the future, and that what he prophesied would happen as a natural result of cosmic forces in action. But his highest officials knew he didn’t trust in the cosmos to do what it should. He depended on the efforts of mortals to ensure the desired outcome of enlightenment, power, and glory for himself and the sect.

“I promise I won’t fail you,” Dr. Miwa mumbled.

With shaking hands he poured a few drops of dark, murky liquid from the first bottle into a cup. He filled the cup with water, stirred the mixture, then carried it to the novice monks. Still chanting, they lifted eager faces to him. Dr. Miwa held the cup to the mouth of a novice, a skinny boy of fourteen whose wide eyes burned with faith. The boy gulped the draft.

“Praise the glory of the Black Lotus,” he said, grimacing at the bitter taste. He and his comrades had been trained to do whatever Anraku expected, at whatever cost to themselves.

Anraku, Junketsu-in, Kumashiro, and Miwa waited silently for the potion to take effect. Dr. Miwa clenched his fists so hard that his nails dug into his palms. In his mind echoed a desperate prayer: Please let it work this time! He could not survive another failure in a life notable for failure.

The circumstances of his origin had set the stage for later difficulties. He’d been born the youngest and weakest of four sons, to a grocer in the city of Kamakura. The family business wasn’t rich enough to support all the offspring, so Miwa had been apprenticed at age ten to a local physician who treated patients around the city, ran a small pharmacy, and already had other apprentices. Miwa, a sad, homesick outcast from his family, soon found himself an outcast in his new situation.

His two fellow apprentices were older boys, and not pleased to share the training, meager food, and humble shelter that the physician provided. Saburō and Yoshi immediately ganged up against Miwa. They mocked his homeliness and beat him. They gave him the worst tasks, like cooking the foul-smelling bear bile. Miwa, too weak to fight back, concentrated on learning the diagnosis and treatment of diseases, the medicinal herbs and potions. He showed off his knowledge during the lessons, hoping to impress his master and put his tormenters in a bad light. However, his efforts backfired.

The physician was a childless widower who aspired to wealth and prestige but achieved neither. He favored Saburō and Yoshi as if they were his sons, and rebuked Miwa constantly.

“Stop acting as if you’re better than everyone else,” he said. “It’s disgusting, and you look a mess. Clean yourself up.”

Miwa tried, but he had a remarkable affinity for grime. It stained his clothes, blackened his fingernails, and erupted in pimples on his face. Resentment toward his master and the apprentices festered in him. He swore that one day he would be a great doctor, yet his problems worsened. Medical study required treating the sick under a physician’s supervision, but patients disliked him, and his master curtailed Miwa’s practical training for fear of losing business. Miwa finished his apprenticeship at age twenty, with much theoretical knowledge and a chest of medicines, but little experience. When he set up his practice, only the poorest, sickest people hired him, for a pittance; he sought wealthy patrons, but found none. Lacking money and personal charm, he couldn’t attract a wife or even a mistress; his sexual life consisted of encounters with prostitutes who serviced him in exchange for medical treatment. His belief in his brilliance sustained him through lean years. Eventually, he decided to move to Edo, in the hope that his career would flourish in a bigger city.

Along the way, his baggage and medicine chest were stolen. He arrived in Edo a pauper and wandered the streets seeking work with pharmacists and doctors. No one wanted him. He spent his nights sleeping under bridges and his days begging alms, growing dirtier and uglier as months passed. Then one morning he stopped at a pharmacy and overheard a conversation between a customer and the proprietor. The customer wanted rhinoceros-horn pills-a powerful, expensive aphrodisiac-but the proprietor said he had none because supplies from India were low. Desperation inspired Miwa.