“I believe I remember seeing something in here… ” Noguchi opened a “To Be Sorted” chest, handling each scroll as if it were a fragile living thing. Sano opened the other. A thorough search yielded a single but intriguing find, dated a year and a half after the last.

Kyōto. The twentieth day of the twelfth month was one of heavy snow and bitter wind. As midnight approached, General Fujiwara and thirty of his men advanced on Araki Yojiemon’s mansion. They smashed the gate’s heavy timbers with a huge. mallet. Then, as half his men scaled the estate’s back and side walls, General Fujiwara led the rest on a frontal assault, storming through the gate like a legion of avenging gods.

Araki’s retainers awoke from their slumbers and engaged General Fujiwara’s force in a violent battle. Walls splintered, windows tore, and beams toppled. Blood flowed and cries pierced the night as fighters on both sides fell dead.

But although the Fujiwara contingent fought bravely, alas, they were sadly outnumbered. They never penetrated Araki’s private chamber. Forced to retreat, General Fujiwara fled the house into the snowy night to his waiting horse, barely escaping with his life. General Fujiwara vowed to slay Araki, but; never did. He took ill the following month, and died.

“General Fujiwara evidently bore a grudge against both Endō and Araki,” Sano said thoughtfully. “Could the Bundori Killer be one of his descendants, who has resumed the feud by killing Araki and Endō?”

“But why now, after so many years?” Noguchi’s forehead wrinkles climbed his scalp.

Sano pondered the question. “Maybe none of Fujiwara’s sons cared enough about the feud to jeopardize their own positions or risk their own lives by committing murder. Maybe the present-day Fujiwara is braver than his forebears, or has a stronger sense of filial duty. Or perhaps he’s mad.”

“Perhaps. But if he’s not mad, then what grievance could be so important? What could Araki and Endō have done to earn the Fujiwara clan’s permanent animosity?”

Sano ran a hand over the scroll, as if by doing so he could divine the answers. Without them, his theory lacked substance. It linked Araki Yojiemon and Endō Munetsugu to a man who had wanted them both dead. It offered an explanation for why someone might have wanted to kill Kaibara and Tōzawa. But the records. gave no motive sufficient to justify the gruesome murders-or the assassination attempt on himself-committed more than a hundred years after General Fujiwara’s death. Still, the theory was the best Sano had.

“I must locate General Fujiwara’s descendants who now live in or near Edo,” he said. “Until proven otherwise, they’re all murder suspects. Will you help me find them?”

Noguchi cringed, obviously wanting no further involvement with the murder investigation. Sano waited. Then, as he’d hoped, the archivist’s eyes began to shine.

“That would be a formidable task,” Noguchi said with cautious relish. “Examining the old family lineages, then searching the census records at the Ministry of Temples and Shrines… Oh, my.” Eagerly he rubbed his hands together.

Sano smiled in relief and affection. The thrill of the hunt had overcome Noguchi’s fear of Chamberlain Yanagisawa. “I know it’s asking a lot, but can you get the names for me by tomorrow?” Sano asked, rising to go. “Lives are at stake.” His own included, he thought.

Face alight with zeal, Noguchi rose and drew his pudgy body up to its full, insignificant height. “Tomorrow, if it is humanly possible, I will have them for you.” For once he exhibited a hint of samurai steel as he girded himself for battle in his chosen arena.

As Noguchi saw him out the door, Sano felt, for the first time since he’d begun the investigation, the fire of certainty. He was finally making progress that he could report to the shogun, the elders, and Chamberlain Yanagisawa at the council meeting tomorrow. He only regretted that the evening’s unexpected, time-consuming events had prevented his meeting with Aoi.

Then, before he’d reached the gate, Noguchi called his name. Sano turned.

“Gambatte kudasai,” Noguchi said solemnly. Do your best, and good luck. “But know this: Yanagisawa will almost certainly make sure that you do not succeed. And the shogun, who does not tolerate failure, will distance himself from you. If you persist, you may find yourself a rōnin again-or worse-in no time at all.”

When Sano didn’t answer, Noguchi continued, “Sometimes the truth is dangerous to seek, and even more dangerous to know. Unfortunately that is a lesson some men must learn over and over again. But I fear that this time you will suffer enough to fix it in your mind permanently. Good night, Sano-san.”

At Sano’s mansion, the guards bowed and opened the gate for him. A yawning stableboy led his horse away. Inside, a lantern burned in the entryway, but the rest of the house was dark, silent. As Sano walked toward his bedchamber, carrying Tōzawa’s swords to put away for safekeeping, the creak of the floor under his feet echoed in the chill, deserted corridor. Where were the servants? Not that he required their attentions; he wasn’t hungry, and he could prepare his own bath and bed. But he always dreaded this solitary homecoming. And tonight his melancholy went deeper because of his disappointment over not seeing Aoi, which he tried to dismiss as purely professional. He didn’t want to admit he’d been looking forward to her company all day.

Then he stopped when he reached the main reception room and saw its paper walls aglow with light. Curious, he slid open the door.

Inside, Aoi knelt before her altar, where candles burned and the smoking incense saturated the air with its musky sweetness. Sunken charcoal braziers sent up warm fumes. As Aoi returned his gaze with one solemn and serene, her odd beauty caught at Sano’s heart. His depression disappeared; suddenly, he felt extraordinarily alive. A dark thrill of excitement prickled his skin. His house had been transformed into a temple, with Aoi enthroned as a living goddess ready to receive his prayers or offerings. His rational, intellectual self withdrew into slumber. He didn’t question how Aoi had known to come to him, or how she’d gotten into his house. He simply responded to her implicit invitation.

He moved forward and knelt before the altar, placing Tōzawa’s swords upon it. The world shrank to a hazy, glowing space that contained only this room, himself, and Aoi. Breathlessly he awaited her response.

She picked up the long killing-sword first, stroking its worn hilt and scabbard with gentle, probing fingers. Sano involuntarily imagined her hands caressing him. When she slowly unsheathed the blade, his manhood grew erect inside his loincloth. A pulse of desire drove hot blood through his veins as she brought the sword to her mouth and licked the gleaming steel. She repeated the process with the short sword, and Sano stared. Eyes half-closed in concentration, throat arched, she looked as though she shared his pleasure.

Now Aoi returned the swords to their scabbards and balanced them both on her palms. Her inarticulate moans intensified Sano’s excitement. Then came laughter-hearty, male, and startling.

“By the gods!” She stared from side to side. “Yoshiwara is all they say it is. Look at those beauties in the windows!”

Everything about her was completely samurai. Her brash voice; the swagger of her shoulders as she pantomimed walking; the insolent leer she aimed at the imaginary courtesans. Tōzawa’s spirit inhabited her body. Sano could almost see the rōnin walking toward him. Like an expert actor, Aoi somehow even managed to evoke the pleasure quarter’s bustling gaiety.

Aoi laughed Tōzawa’s laugh again. Her body jiggled like the stout rōnin’s must have. “Oh, yes, this is the right place for a man to end a long journey!”