“No,” he gasped, raising his hands in a futile attempt to ward off the undefined threat. “Please, no.”

The intruder halted a few steps away. The noisy breathing stopped. Waves of panic washed over the left minister as he cowered in the sudden awful silence. Then, in the blurred oval of its face, the intruder’s mouth opened-a darker void in darkness. Air rushed inward.

Then a scream shattered the night: a deafening wail that encompassed the full range of sound, from deepest groan to shrillest whine. The ghastly, inhuman voice blasted the left minister. Its low notes thundered through him with rumbles a million times stronger than an earthquake. The left minister’s limbs splayed as sharp cracks like gunfire shot along his bones. As he howled in pain, sinews snapped. Terror combined with wonder.

Merciful gods, what is this terrible magic?

The scream’s middle notes churned his bowels into liquid fire. The wail resonated in his heart, which beat faster and faster, swelling inside his chest. As his lungs ballooned, he breathed with harsh gasps. He fell, writhing in agony. The scream’s shrillness arced along his nerves; convulsions wracked him. In the final moment before pain devoured reason, he knew he would never make his rendezvous. Nor would his dreams ever come to pass.

Now the left minister’s insides erupted. Hot blood surged into his throat, filled his ears, choked off his breath, and blinded him. The scream’s vibrations escalated until his brain exploded in a cataclysm of white-hot light.

Then death extinguished terror, pain, and consciousness.

The scream echoed across the city, then faded. A lull in the normal night sounds followed in its wake. For an eternal moment, time hung suspended in dead quiet. Then the doors and gates of the palace slammed open; lamps lit windows. The compound came alive with the clamor of voices, of hurrying footsteps. Flaming torches, borne by guards, converged on the imperial enclosure.

A breath extinguished the flame of the lantern in the cottage. A shadowy figure crept through the garden, merging with other shadows, and disappeared.

From the attic of a shop in Edo ’s Nihonbashi merchant district, Sano Ichirō, the shogun’s sōsakan-sama-Most Honorable Investigator of Events, Situations, and People-conducted a secret surveillance. He and his chief retainer, Hirata, peered through the window blinds. Below them lay Tobacco Lane, a street of tobacco shops and warehouses, restaurants and teahouses. As the summer twilight deepened, the peaked roofs turned to dark silhouettes against a rosy sky. Tobacco Lane, recently bustling with daytime commerce, was now a corridor of blank façades, its storefronts hidden behind sliding doors. Lanterns burned over gates at either end of the block. Across the city echoed the usual evening music of dogs barking, horses’ neighs, the clatter of night-soil carts, and tolling temple bells. The only sign of activity came from the Good Fortune Noodle Restaurant, a tiny establishment wedged between two shops across the street. Lamplight striped its barred window. Smoke wafted from the kitchen.

“Dinner’s long past,” Sano said, “but I smell fish cooking over there.”

Hirata nodded. “She’s definitely expecting someone.”

“Let’s just hope it’s our man,” Sano said.

Nearby, Sano’s wife, Reiko, stood amid bales of fragrant tobacco. Her pastel summer robes glowed in the faint light from the window and open skylight. Twenty-one years old, with eyes like bright black flower petals and long, lustrous hair worn in a knot, she was small and slender. Since their marriage last autumn, Sano had defied convention by permitting Reiko to help with his cases. Even though both of them knew that a proper wife should be waiting for him at home, he’d learned that Reiko could question witnesses and uncover evidence in places where a male detective couldn’t go. Now here to witness the climax of this investigation, Reiko joined Sano and Hirata at the window. She tensed, listening, her lovely, delicate oval face alert.

“I hear someone coming,” she said.

In the street below, an old man shuffled into view, leaning on a cane. The lantern at the gate illuminated his straggly white hair; a tattered kimono hung on his stooped body.

“That’s the Lion of the Kantō?” Surprise lifted Reiko’s voice. The notorious crime lord ruled a band of gangsters who ran gambling dens, robbed travelers, operated illegal brothels, and extorted money from merchants throughout the Kantō, the region surrounding Edo. “I expected someone more impressive.”

“The Lion travels in disguise,” Sano reminded her. “Few people know what he really looks like. That’s one way he’s managed to evade capture for so long.”

His other methods included bribing police to ignore his activities, killing his enemies, and keeping on the move. Attempts by Sano’s detective corps to infiltrate the gang had failed, and their informants had refused to talk. Hence, Reiko had used her special communication network, composed of wives, relatives, servants, and other women associated with powerful samurai clans. They collected gossip, spread news and rumors. From them Reiko learned that the Lion had a mistress-a widow who ran the Good Fortune Noodle Restaurant. During a month’s surveillance, Sano’s detectives had observed that men of different descriptions regularly visited after the restaurant closed. Guessing that these were all the Lion in various disguises, Sano had planned an ambush and taken over this shop as his headquarters.

Now he said to Reiko, “If that old man is the Lion and we catch him, we’ll have you to thank.”

Sano felt excitement and anxiety surging through him. While he yearned to end the Lion’s reign of crime, he was worried about Reiko. He wished she were safe at home, though what possible harm could come to her from merely watching through the window?

Up a curve in the road, another watcher peered out a different window, this one in a half-timbered mansion with a tile roof and high earthen wall. From his position in the lamplit second-floor parlor, Chamberlain Yanagisawa had a perfect view of Tobacco Lane, the Good Fortune Noodle Restaurant, and the shop where Sano and his comrades hid. Over silk robes he wore an armor tunic; a golden-horned helmet framed his handsome face. Inhaling on a long silver pipe, he savored the rise of anticipation. He turned to his chief retainer, Aisu, who squatted on the tatami floor nearby.

“Are you sure they’re in there?” Yanagisawa asked.

“Oh, yes, Honorable Chamberlain.” A slender man several years older than Yanagisawa’s own age of thirty-three, Aisu had tensely coiled grace and hooded eyes that gave him a deceptive look of perpetual drowsiness. His voice was a sibilant drawl. “I climbed on the roof and saw Sano, his wife, and Hirata through the skylight. Six detectives arc in the shop below. The side window is open.” Aisu grinned. “Oh, yes, it’s the perfect setup. A brilliant plan, Honorable Chamberlain.”

“Any sign of the Lion yet?”

Aisu shook his head.

“Is everything ready?” Yanagisawa asked.

“Oh, yes.” Aisu patted the lumpy cloth sack that lay on a table beside him.

“Timing is critical,” Yanagisawa reminded him. “Have you given the men their orders?”

“Oh, yes. Everyone’s in place.”

“How fortunate that I managed to learn about Sano’s plans in time to prepare.” A smug smile curved Yanagisawa’s mouth.

Today he’d received a message from his spy in Sano’s household, describing the ambush. Yanagisawa had quickly organized his own scheme, commandeering the mansion of a rich tobacco merchant for a lookout station. If he succeeded, he would soon see his rival destroyed. The misfortunes of the past would end.