First he’d found out what had happened to Sano. All over town, newssellers hawked broadsheets: “The shōgun’s sōsakan is a traitor. Read all about it!”

Hirata snatched a paper. Dismay flooded him as he read the outrageous charges against his master, followed by relief upon learning that Sano would remain alive and free until the tribunal convened in three days. Hirata had time to gather evidence against the real criminals and exonerate Sano.

He’d begun with a visit to Urabe. Outside the merchant’s foreign goods shop, he’d met Urabe’s daughter, Junko, who had begged Hirata to save Kiyoshi.

“Kiyoshi is innocent. You must tell your superiors, so they’ll let him go!” In her agitation, Junko had pounded delicate fists against Hirata’s chest, sobbing. “Please, I don’t want him to die!”

“If Kiyoshi isn’t a smuggler, then what was he doing in the cove?” Hirata had asked.

Junko related a tale about how Kiyoshi had chased the mysterious lights, trying to catch ghosts who would give them enough gold so they could afford to marry. “My Kiyoshi is a good samurai. He would never break the law.” Weeping, she said, “He’s so kind, obedient, and loyal!”

Enough to sacrifice his life to protect someone else? Hirata remembered Sano’s suspicion that Urabe had aided Jan Spaen in the smuggling, perhaps by selling the goods on the black market. Had Kiyoshi lied to save Junko, who would share her father’s punishment for the crime?

While pretending to search Urabe’s establishment for the fugitive, he’d questioned the merchant regarding his whereabouts on crucial nights. Urabe had claimed that he’d been working late, alone, in his store at the time of the smuggling, Peony’s murder, and Jan Spaen’s disappearance. However, two events weakened his shaky alibi and strengthened his motive for smuggling.

Three raffish-looking peasants had come to the shop, their tattooed arms marking them as gangsters. When they accepted from Urabe a bulky package in exchange for strings of coins, Hirata had smelled a crooked deal. Then a moneylender had seized Urabe’s goods as payment for a bad debt. The merchant was obviously in dire financial straits. And if those gangsters were black marketeers, he had the contacts to dispose of smuggled goods.

Then troops had arrived to search the shop; Hirata had barely escaped. Since then, hours ago, he’d accomplished nothing except mere survival, which didn’t help Sano.

Marching footsteps heralded danger again. Hirata fled into the marketplace. Stalls sheltered vendors, merchandise, and customers from the rain. The smell of frying food made his mouth water. Famished, he walked to a stall that sold skewers of grilled seafood and vegetables.

“Give me five of those,” he told the vendor, “and a large bowl of rice.”

The man set the food on the narrow ledge that served as a table. “That will be ten coppers, master.”