Like all Japanese craft, the ship, whose square sail bore the Tokugawa triple-hollyhock-leaf crest, was unseaworthy because the government wanted to discourage citizens from leaving the country. With its shallow draft, the awkward wooden tub pitched at the slightest wave. Sano and Hirata had experienced nerve-racking passages through reefs, shoals, and ferocious summer storms. They’d shared the tiny cabin with the officers, while the sailors slept on the roof, and eaten a monotonous diet of salt fish, pickles, and rice cakes. The journey’s relentless pace told Sano that Chamberlain Yanagisawa had ordered the crew not to stop for bad weather, hoping Sano might die in a shipwreck. Hostilities within the bakufu’s upper echelon were no secret to the lower ranks, and the crew had treated Sano resentfully, knowing the chamberlain would sacrifice their lives to destroy an enemy. And Sano had never ceased worrying about how the hiatus from Edo would affect his future.

Thuds and crashes erupted from the stern, where the crew was bringing baggage out of the hold.

“I’ll make sure they don’t ruin your things.” Hirata ran down the deck, shouting, “Hey, be careful with those!”

Before leaving Edo, Sano had postponed his wedding again, angering his prospective in-laws and jeopardizing the match. He’d left his detective corps behind to serve the shōgun in his absence, but knew it couldn’t substitute for his personal attention; he might not have a post when he got home. He seethed with anger at the regime that rewarded his accomplishments with virtual exile. Surely Chamberlain Yanagisawa was sending the governor of Nagasaki instructions to ruin him.

But now Sano’s relief at surviving the journey inspired a burst of optimism. As he neared Nagasaki, his interest stirred. He’d never been this far from home. What unknown challenges awaited him in this land of troubled history and exotic foreign influences?

The ship moved down a wide, convoluted channel in the Kyūshū coastline. Coves adorned the shores; woodlands topped high cliffs. Terraced rice fields ascended gentler inclines. Over small islands, seabirds soared and shrieked. Fishing boats dotted the calm water. In the distance, the city of Nagasaki cascaded down the lower slopes of steep hills.

“Look!” Returning, Hirata pointed to a glint of light on a clifftop. “And there’s another. What are they?”

“The sun reflecting off spyglasses,” Sano answered. “They’re used by guards who watch for foreign ships and warn of any threat to national security.”

Nagasaki, the center of overseas trade, received merchants from many nations—some with hopes of military conquest as well as financial gain.

The ship passed a large island that rose like a mountain in the channel. “Takayama,” Sano said. “During the Christian persecutions a hundred years ago, foreign priests were thrown off it and drowned. And that smaller island must be the Burning Place, where hostile ships are set on fire.”