Akitada snatched the letter from Hamaya’s hand, glanced at it, and felt his heart stop. “Someone’s private joke, no doubt,” he told the head clerk and tossed the paper carelessly on his desk. “Let me know when the charges are ready.”

He waited until Hamaya had left his office, then read the letter again. It was addressed to Sunada and encouraged him in his plan to establish a separate northern rule with promises of high appointment in the capital if his endeavor could influence imperial succession. The letter was unsigned, but Akitada had recognized the seal. It belonged to one of the sons of the retired emperor. This young man had briefly served as crown prince, but had been replaced in the succession by a child, the son of the present empress and grandson of the Fujiwara chancellor.

Because of Fujiwara marriage politics, intrigue within the imperial family was always a danger, and punishment usually fell heavily on the innocent, on loyal servants and dutiful officials along with their families, rather than the highly placed principals.

Therefore Akitada stared at the elegant paper with particular horror. It lay on his desk between the black arrow which had killed Kaibara and saved Akitada’s life and the lacquered box of Tamako’s shell-matching game. Men played deadly games everywhere. Not only was he about to risk his life to secure this province, but the letter represented a bloody upheaval about to happen in the capital, and on his, Akitada’s, report. Yet duty required him to make this report. By a twist of fate, he was forced to destroy lives, careers, and families, perhaps his own included, when he had struggled all along to avoid bloodshed.

Akitada knew that another man would burn the letter and forget its contents. Echigo was a remote province. If the insurrection collapsed here, the disaffected prince in the capital might well give up his aspirations.

But weighed against the present and future danger to the emperor, this was not an option open to Akitada. What if the news of the collapse of the northern uprising prompted desperate action in the capital? And what guarantee was there that an ambitious prince might not plot again, and again?

He raised his hands to his face and groaned.

“What is the matter, husband?” Tamako had entered silently, wide-eyed with concern. She looked frail in the morning light, her hands resting protectively on her swelling body.

Akitada smiled bleakly. “I am afraid I may have failed both of us,” he said. “I no longer know what is to be done.” He closed his eyes. “And I think I am about to fail the emperor no matter how I choose to act.”

He heard the rustle of her silk gown as she sank down next to him, then felt the warmth of her body pressed to his. “You cannot fail me,” she whispered, “no matter what you do. It is not in you.” She withdrew a little. “You will fail yourself only if you shirk your duty. And how can you fail the emperor if you obey his laws and perform your duty?”

He shook his head and smiled a little at her fervor. “Here,” he said, pushing the letter toward her. “This affects you and our unborn child as well. Read it!”

She read. “Whose is this?” she asked.

“It is Prince Okisada’s seal.”

She drew in her breath sharply. “I see.” Her eye fell on the arrow on his desk. “Would you aim an arrow into a dark cave because you thought a bear was moving inside?”

A bear? A cave? What did she mean? Perversely, Tamako’s words conjured up another memory: White Bear, Kaoru’s dog. Kaoru’s long bow. Akitada’s hand went to the arrow. By its length and rare feather it was a contest arrow, not an ordinary soldier’s issue. He recalled Hitomaro’s amazement at Kaoru’s bow, his skill with it. Like his coroner, his new sergeant of constables was an enigma.

The more he thought about it, Kaoru’s education and his difference from the other outcasts were mysteries he had not pursued because there were more urgent problems to be solved. Was this just a minor puzzle, or was it at the heart of the Uesugi stranglehold on this province? And how was it connected to Kaibara’s death?

“Akitada?”

He was snatched back to the present. “What?”

“I only meant that you cannot know the situation in the capital. If you release the arrow, it may merely wound the bear, or kill its cub. Then you may be hurt instead.”

How astute she was. “Yes. I know. That is the problem.” He turned his attention to the arrow again, twisting it this way and that.

Tamako frowned. “A hunter might wait for another opportunity,” she remarked anxiously.

“Yes. You are quite right. Thank you.” He smiled at her, noting that the protective hand rested on her softly rounded belly again. Women played by their own rules, followed their own concept of honor, he thought and was surprised at the discovery.

She blushed as if she had read his mind. “Forgive me. It was not my place to advise you.”

“On the contrary. I think you have helped me solve another mystery.”

“Oh?” Her pale face lit up, then looked puzzled. “Again?”

“Yes. Your final match in our shell game led me to Sunada.”

“The ladies with the lutes!” She clapped her hands. “But how?”

“The murdered woman owned a lute, a very expensive, rare one. After the murder, that lute was gone. I realized that only Sunada could have bought it, or had the taste to do so. And he would have taken it away with him.”

“How horrible!” Tamako’s eyes were large with shock. Then she added quickly, “But he must have loved her very much to have spoiled her so,” and her eyes lit up as if a thought had crossed her mind. She glanced at the shell-matching game. “Did the game ... cost very much?” she asked, half hopeful, half afraid.

Akitada did not know how to answer. He had paid much less than it was worth. Had not the curio dealer said the shell-matching game had been ordered as a gift for an Uesugi lady years ago? He had a dim memory of those same flowers and grasses among the decorations on a suit of armor in the Takata armory.

Would Tamako think he did not love her? The female mind drew the most astonishing conclusions sometimes. He said, joking though his heart was afraid, “However you might rate my affection, I certainly would never entertain any murderous thoughts.”

Puzzlement, then comprehension and embarrassment passed quickly over her face. But to Akitada’s relief, she burst into laughter. Tamako laughed like a child, eyes sparkling, head thrown back, pink lips revealing perfect white teeth. She rarely practiced the custom of blackening her teeth as ladies in the capital did. And this was not ladylike laughter either. It was wholly infectious, and Akitada joined in.

The door opened, and Tora looked in curiously. Behind him Hamaya and the two clerks craned their necks.