Outside, wooden soles clattered up the shrine’s steps, heralding the approach of worshippers. In the distance, the urgent pulse of the war drums continued. Sano rose to leave.

“Tell me the moment you hear,” he said.

“Yes, of course. How shall I reach you?”

With his house ruined, the police surely looking for him, and nowhere to go, Sano said, “Can you suggest a quiet, discreet inn?”

“The Double Happiness.” Ohira gave directions. “I’ll send word to you there.”

Before departing, Sano bowed to the inner sanctuary and placed a coin in the offertory box for good luck. Ohira remained kneeling, eyes closed in silent prayer. An unnatural serenity had fallen over him, lending a strange beauty to his ravaged face.

“Will you be all right?” Sano asked, concerned for the man whose destruction would clear a path toward the truth, and his own salvation.

The chief’s voice sounded remote, preoccupied. “I shall just stay here awhile longer.”

Guilt and pity gnawed at Sano; he felt no triumph over accomplishing this mission. Fervently he wished he was the sort of man who could have declined the investigation, or at least ended it before destroying Peony, Old Carp, and Ohira or endangering Hirata and the nation. His truth-seeking nature seemed a curse, the serving of his personal code of justice a cruel self-indulgence. Yet what could he do now but see the investigation through to the finish? And he still felt in his deepest soul that this was right. He must serve honor and accept his fate—just as Ohira had.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, but the chief gave no sign that he’d heard. Sano left the shrine, intending to take shelter at the inn while waiting for Ohira’s message. But when he stepped outside the torii gate, a premonition of danger stabbed him a moment before he spied its cause.

Down the highway past him marched a huge procession, led by footsoldiers carrying banners emblazoned with the Tokugawa crest. Mounted troops escorted three palanquins whose open windows framed solemn, elderly officials dressed in black ceremonial caps and robes. An army of servants and porters followed, carrying chests and bundles. Sano’s throat constricted; dread sickened him.

The treason tribunal had arrived a day earlier than expected. Time had run out. And Sano had no chance to adjust his plans. From the direction of the city stampeded an angry horde of samurai: Yoriki Ota, in full battle uniform, riding a gaudily caparisoned steed; dōshin brandishing jitte; police assistants carrying sticks, ropes, and ladders; mounted troops and footsoldiers; a drenched and furious Nirin.

“There he is!” shouted Nirin, who must have led the pack to the shrine. “Get him!”

The horde swept down upon Sano. The police stripped off his sword, bound his hands, and interlocked the ladders around him to form a cage.