The rider in front, a muscular man with a neatly trimmed graying beard and the sadness in his eyes that attracts women, looked out at the choppy sea and up at the roiling sky. The wind was bitterly cold. He called over his shoulder, “Looks like snow.”

“Smells like it, too.” His younger companion in the bearskin coat gave a shiver and pulled his handsome face back into his collar like a turtle. A string of birds dangled from either side of his shaggy pony’s neck. “Nothing like we expected, is it, Hito?” His voice was muffled by the fur.

“Few things are. The master was sent here to set things right.”

“It’s another trap, I bet,” grumbled the young man into his bearskin. His name was Tora, or “Tiger.” He had chosen it years ago when his birth name had become a problem. Fifteen years Hitomaro’s junior and from peasant stock, he had served their master longer and was closer to him. Hitomaro—Hito for short—had only joined them a few months ago in the capital, along with his friend Genba.

“How so?” asked Hitomaro.

“Reminds me of Kazusa. He was meant to fail there, too, but he was hot to succeed, sure it would make his career. They sent him on a wild goose chase, hoping he’d screw up. He gave ‘em a black eye instead.”

“This time his friends got him the assignment.”

“Don’t you believe it. This is much worse. They’re letting him fill in for some prince who’s taking his ease in the capital and raking in most of the income. Only this time they made sure they tied both the master’s hands behind his back so he couldn’t defend himself. And then they hobbled his feet so he couldn’t get away. What gets me is he’s all fired up again anyway.”

“Then he’ll succeed just like last time.”

“With just the three of us? When the whole province is about to rise up in arms against him?”

“You don’t know that. And we are four. You forgot Seimei.”

“Amida, brother! That old man’s never held a sword or a bow. Even her ladyship can at least ride a horse.”

“Seimei is smart. Stop complaining, Tora, and let’s move on. We’ll have to cook the birds tonight.”

“Heaven help us,” muttered Tora. “I wish we could make Genba do it. He likes food.”

Hitomaro, who had reached level ground, urged his horse into a trot. He called back, “Genba eats. He doesn’t cook.”

Tora followed. If the truth were known, he was by nature an optimist but he hid his confidence in hopes of impressing the older and more worldly wise Hitomaro with his experience.

On the outskirts of the city they encountered a disturbance at a mangy hostel called the Inn of the Golden Carp. The place was, despite its fancy name, a mere collection of low hovels, the sort that serves bad food in skimpy portions but generous helpings of vermin.

“Wonder what’s going on there?” Tora’s face emerged from his bearskin as if he smelled excitement.

Hitomaro spurred his horse, scattering the gaggle of people staring through the gate, and rode into the inn yard. Tora followed, and so did the spectators. A constable in a patched brown jacket and dirty trousers met them. “Nobody’s allowed,” he cried, waving his arms. “Disperse. By order of Judge Hisamatsu.”

Hitomaro and Tora ignored him and dismounted. They tied their ponies to a post, but the constable drew hisjitte and barred their way, swinging the two-pronged metal weapon at them.

“Hey! I said ...”

Hitomaro growled, “Put that toothpick down and stand aside. By order of the governor.” Sweeping the man out of his way, he stalked past him into the main hovel.

Tora slapped the constable’s shoulder with a grin. “Didn’t recognize us? Keep an eye on our birds, will you?” He pointed to the string of freshly killed quail and doves.

Inside, a dank stone-flagged passage led past the kitchen toward a large common room. An odor of dirt and garbage hung about the place. No point in removing shoes; the floors were either stone or dirt and could have used a sweeping out.

In the kitchen, a slovenly maid stood beside the hearth, sniveling into a corner of her skirt. Tora deplored the dirt but scanned with interest her shapely ankle and an immodest expanse of leg and thigh.

Hitomaro was already in the common room, another dirt-floored space with a central fire pit. The fire was out and the room empty except for Hitomaro and a stocky character in half armor.

They knew Chobei and he knew them. Chobei was the sergeant in charge of the tribunal’s constables, and they were the newly appointed lieutenants in the governor’s staff. Chobei was a local and theoretically under their command but did not see it that way Relations were becoming strained, because Hitomaro and Tora had no plans to relinquish their authority. Never mind that they represented the entire governor’s guard, they still outranked Chobei.

“This is a local matter,” Chobei was saying, pushing out a pugnacious chin. “Nothing to do with you. I’ve sent for the judge.”

Hitomaro snapped, “Everything in this province concerns us. What happened here?”

“Just a simple robbery. Done by outsiders.”

Tora raised his brows. “Outsiders? What do you mean?”

Chobei sneered, “I mean strangers. Not by our people.”

“Ah.” Hitomaro pretended interest. “And how do you know that?”

Chobei cast up his eyes. “It’s an inn, isn’t it? People who don’t live here stay at inns. Strangers. Outsiders. Like you.”

Tora growled in the back of his throat. Hitomaro gave him a warning look. “What about the owner?” he asked. “The maids? The staff? Any of them could be involved. Who was robbed and what was taken?”

The sergeant smirked unpleasantly. “If you must know, it’s the owner who was robbed and all his gold was taken. Right out of his locked chest.”

“I want to speak to him.”

Chobei snorted. “Can’t. They cut his throat.”

“Look here, you useless piece of garbage,” Tora exploded. He pushed Hitomaro aside to get his hands on the sergeant and teach him a lesson in manners.

Chobei backed off, yelling, “Be careful. I’m in charge here. The judge won’t like you interfering in the execution of my duty. This is a serious crime.”

Hitomaro held Tora back. “Carry on, Sergeant,” he said. “We’ll just take a look to make sure we report the matter correctly to his Excellency.” Without waiting for an answer, he headed to the back of the inn. Tora scowled at Chobei and followed.

The dingy passage led to dingy rooms, all of them apparently empty. The last one seemed to be the owner’s, and dirtier than the rest. Its floor was stamped earth, but in one corner was a wooden sleeping platform large enough for three people. Filthy blankets lay tumbled about the corpse of a fat elderly man. The man’s torso and most of the blankets were soaked in blood. Beside him an empty wooden box rested on its side. It was the sort of box small shopkeepers keep their money in, with iron clasps and a lock. The lock had been forced.