“I’ll tell you what I think happened,” Sano said, hiding his hope and worry. “You needn’t talk; just nod if you agree, and shake your head if you don’t. All right?”

No reaction. Sano persisted: “You somehow discovered the smuggling when you went to Deshima to practice conversing with the Dutch. Or did you see it from the watchtower? Maybe you followed the mysterious lights, the way I did—ghost stories wouldn’t frighten a brave samurai like you, would they?”

“You tracked the smugglers to the cove. Last night, did you try to catch them and become a hero? Or was there another reason you were in the cove? Kiyoshi. Answer me!”

Sano expelled his breath in a gust of frustration. The young samurai hadn’t responded to any of his statements or questions. Yet Sano felt sure he had at least the framework of the truth. With increasing desperation, he tried to build it into a structure that would support his defense before the tribunal.

“Whom did you expect to find in the cove, Kiyoshi? The Deshima guards? Iishino—or your father?” Of the possible culprits, Chief Ohira was not only the one with the easiest chance to smuggle, but the closest to Kiyoshi. This factor supported Sano’s belief in Ohira’s guilt. “Did you incriminate yourself and me to protect him? Do you know who killed Jan Spaen?”

This was useless. No matter how logical an explanation Sano offered the tribunal, it wouldn’t save him or Hirata without confirmation from Kiyoshi … who apparently intended to take his knowledge to the grave.

Then Kiyoshi’s lips moved in a hoarse whisper so quiet that Sano had to move closer to hear him over the rain. “The death march begins. At first, everything is just the way it really happened. It’s dawn, and the soldiers are leading the condemned man, Yoshidō Ganzaemon, into the hills. He’s been convicted of treason for insulting the shōgun. I’m in the procession with the other witnesses. Executions frighten me … but I don’t have anything to worry about. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

His eyes took on a haunted look, as if beholding the grim vision he described; his whisper quavered. “But when we reach the execution ground, suddenly I’m not in the audience anymore … I’m the prisoner.” Sweat dripped off his forehead; the stink of terror wafted from him. “I can feel the ropes cutting into my wrists …” Slowly he moved his hands behind his back and held them there as if bound. “I feel the heavy shackles around my legs. I see everyone watching me. My father is there. So are Governor Nagai and my comrades from the harbor patrol. … They despise me, because I’m a traitor.”

For the first time, Sano doubted Kiyoshi’s innocence. Surely this fantasy meant that he suffered from extreme guilt. But for what misdeed?