“Thank you.” Akitada turned to Kaibara. “Take us to the north pavilion!”

Kaibara led them out of the reception hall and down a long dim corridor. Rectangular patches of light fell through latticed windows high in one wall, illuminating family armor displayed on the other. Akitada slowed to look at swords, helmets, greaves, breastplates, battle fans, and batons. The collection was large, well-maintained, and of superb quality.

“Look at that,” Tora murmured when they reached a magnificent suit of black-lacquered metal plates tied with scarlet silk cords. Golden chrysanthemum blossoms tangled with waving silver grasses on the breastplate. “It’s like a painting.”

Kaibara stopped. “You have good taste, Lieutenant.” He did not disguise his pride. “The armor is of very superior workmanship. Yosai made it for the late lord’s father who wore it in the battle of Kanagawa. A decisive victory. That’s why we display it on the wall. Most of the other armor, very fine also, is stored in those chests.” He gestured.

Akitada glanced down the corridor. For well over a hundred feet, wooden metal-banded chests stood side by side beneath wall displays bristling with spears, halberds, swords, bows, quivers, arrows, standards, and other battle gear.

Kaibara’s smile broadened as he saw Akitada’s amazement. “Your Excellency has noticed Lord Maro’s swords?” He pointed to matching gold-hilted blades, one long, the other short. Taking down the long sword, he pulled it from the scabbard with a soft hissing sound. The blade emerged and flashed bluish silver in a shaft of light as Kaibara raised it with both hands above his head. His face turned into a snarl of such bloodthirsty ferocity that Akitada stepped back, out of reach of the long blade.

Dr. Oyoshi cleared his throat, and Kaibara chuckled.

Flushing with anger, Akitada stepped forward and took the sword from the steward’s hand. “A fine blade” he commented. “A master made this.”

There was a moment’s pause, then Kaibara said harshly, “They say it drank the blood of a hundred warriors that day at Kanagawa. There’s not a nick in the blade, though his lordship, fighting from a horse, was slashing through bone.”

Returning the sword, Akitada said, “Forgive my ignorance. This battle, I take it, was fought many years ago?”

“Before my time. The late lord was a young man then. Both he and his brother were raised to a warrior’s life.” Kaibara replaced the sword and waited to move on. He seemed to have lost interest in the displays.

“There was a brother?”

“Yes. He was the older. When he died, Lord Maro succeeded. Shall we go on?”

They walked until Tora stopped to exclaim at an unusually long, beautifully finished bow. A very long black arrow with a black-dyed eagle feather and a finely crafted steel tip was attached to its groove. “That bow must be at least one and a half times a man’s height,” Tora cried.

“That one’s for archery contests only,” Kaibara said with an impatient sigh. “We carry shorter ones into battle. The quiver of long arrows gets in the way of the sword arm, and the contest arrows are too expensive to waste on the enemy” He strode off down the corridor without waiting for more questions or comments.

They emerged onto a drafty outside gallery which took them to the north pavilion. Here Kaibara stopped and asked, “Where was the body found, Excellency?”

Tora and Akitada stepped to the railing and peered down.

“According to the fellow who brought it in,” Akitada said, with a warning glance at Tora, “it must have been just about here.”

“Who—?” began Kaibara.

“Look!” cried Tora. “There are scratches on the railing here. And there”—he pointed—”that looks like dried blood.”

Akitada squinted at the brown streaks. “Doctor?” Oyoshi came and peered also. He nodded. Akitada turned to the steward. “Please unlock the pavilion.”

Kaibara protested: He could not see the purpose of inspecting the pavilion. Hideo had jumped off the wall, not killed himself inside. Then there was the matter of sacrilege. The room was where Lord Maro had lived and died; his spirit was still there and should not be disturbed. And in any case, he had no authority to unlock the door.

Akitada said nothing but stepped to the door and waited.

Kaibara shook his head, fished a key from his sleeve, and admitted them to the late lord’s death chamber.

The pavilion consisted of a single square room, empty except for a fine hanging scroll painting of an eagle on a twisted pine branch, two thick tatami mats, and a large leather trunk. The mats were near one of the windows, the only one whose blinds of speckled black bamboo were rolled up, revealing a view of distant snowcapped mountains. The view from here was magnificent.

Tora and Oyoshi looked around curiously, but Akitada went to the window. There was no gallery on this side; the outside wall of the pavilion joined the stone ramparts descending steeply to the rock gully far below.

Suddenly he staggered back, convulsed by a fit of coughing. They all looked at him in dismay. He choked and gagged, stumbling toward Tora who supported him anxiously. “Some water,” he croaked, grasping his throat.

Oyoshi said sharply, “Lower your master to the ground against the wall there and loosen his robe at the neck. And you, Kaibara, fetch some water! Quick, man! There’s no time to be lost! Do you want the governor’s death on your hands?”

Kaibara hesitated only briefly, then ran out. Akitada stopped gasping, jumped up, and went to the trunk. “Let’s have a look,” he said to the gaping Tora.

The doctor chuckled. “I thought that did not sound quite natural.” He joined them and watched as they removed several silk quilts and a rosewood headrest from the trunk. “Lord Maro’s bedding,” he said and, when they lifted out a large lacquered and gilded box at the bottom, “His writing box. What is it that you expect to find, sir?”

“I wish I knew.” Akitada opened the box. Fitted cleverly inside were two carved ink stones, two porcelain water containers, four lacquer-handled brushes, and two cakes of the finest black ink. Akitada touched the ink cakes. “One is still moist,” he said, holding up his black-tipped finger. “I suppose all those quilts kept the air from drying it out. I wonder...” He listened toward the door, then shut the box, putting it back into the trunk. “Quick, Tora! Put everything back and close it!” Tora obeyed while Akitada resumed his reclining position against the wall, coughing weakly as Kaibara ran in with a flask and cup.

Akitada drank, croaked “Thank you,” and allowed himself to be helped to his feet again. “Sorry,” he muttered, wiping his brow. “It must have been the way I breathed in when I looked out. What a nuisance!”

The doctor asked Kaibara, “Do you happen to know what Lord Maro’s symptoms were before he died? I ask out of professional interest.”