“I am the law!” Hirata said, waving his jitte. “I don’t have to pay.”

The frightened vendor went meekly back to his grill. Hirata wolfed the food while shame tore his spirit and he remembered the words of his father: “An honorable dōshin does not abuse his power, because that would make him no better than the criminals he is supposed to discipline.”

Now Hirata convinced himself that his mission justified thievery, and duty to his master overrode all other concerns. Finishing the food, he went to a tea seller and extorted a drink. With hunger and thirst slaked, his strength and inspiration returned. Avoiding the troops and police, he headed toward the waterfront.

A Talk with residents of Chief Ohira’s street revealed nothing about Ohira except that he lived frugally and had a reputation as a strict, law-abiding leader. Hirata found no evidence that he profited from smuggling Dutch goods. When asked for information about Interpreter Iishino, the residents had told him, “You ought to go see Madam Kihara, the wife of the city treasurer. She’s the go-between who arranged Interpreter Iishino’s marriage, and she always investigates prospective spouses very thoroughly.”

They’d directed Hirata to the hillside below the governor’s mansion. In the broad avenues, clerks and messengers dodged palanquins; mounted administrators and diplomats passed through the gates of the walled estates of Nagasaki’s officials; merchants conversed about prices, profits, and taxes on imported and exported goods. Neither a citywide manhunt nor the threat of war could halt foreign trade, or the bureaucratic machine that regulated it.

Hirata navigated the district with an air of purpose, as if on legitimate business. But his extra sense blared a continuous warning siren in his head; glances from passersby stabbed him like knives. He told himself that his uniform was adequate disguise, and no one would expect a fugitive to stride boldly into Nagasaki’s seat of power. The troops were fewer here. Yet only Hirata’s desire to save his master kept him from bolting.

He located the estate with the square crest above the gate and told a guard he wanted to see Madam Kihara. The guard, assuming he was a marriage client, summoned a servant who led him through the garden and into the house’s entry porch.

“Your shoes and weapons, master?” the servant reminded him politely.

Every instinct in Hirata rebelled against removing his sandals, jitte, and sword as custom required. What if troops should search the house while he was inside? Reluctantly he slipped off his sandals, donned a pair of guest slippers, and placed his weapons on the shelf, knowing that refusal would arouse suspicion. The servant escorted him into the house. From down the corridor came a deep, cracked voice, saying: