One was perhaps fifty years of age. Broad across the shoulders and chest, he exuded an air of elegance even as he paced in agitation. Two ornate swords hung at his waist. His rust-colored silk kimono, patterned with gold ginkgo leaves, emphasized his ruddy complexion. The graying hair drawn back from his shaved crown was glossy with oil.

“It will be very bad for us if we don’t find him at once,” he fumed. Despite his anger, his voice had a mellow, melodious tone—like that of an actor feigning emotion in a Kabuki drama. He wiped his sweating forehead with his sleeve. “What a fiasco!”

The other man was a spare, plainly dressed samurai with ashen hair and a stiff posture. Sano, approaching with his party, heard him mutter, “ … never would have happened if …”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” The first man’s smooth voice tightened. “You—” Then he spied his visitors.

“Governor Nagai, may I present the shōgun’s envoys.” Deftly the escort managed the introductions.

“I’m here to perform an inspection of Nagasaki, Honorable Governor,” Sano said when his turn came.

Shrugging off his agitation like a discarded robe, Nagai bowed in a relaxed, courteous manner. The lines of his face smoothed into a pleasant expression. His coarse features—broad, porous nose, thick lips, and fleshy jowls—had an agile mobility that lent him a semblance of handsomeness.

“Welcome to Nagasaki. You had a pleasant journey, I hope? Yes. Well.” The words issued from Governor Nagai in a honeyed flow. “I apologize for the temporary state of confusion. But everything is under control.”

Sano had heard Nagai mentioned in Edo. His admirers praised the administrative skills that had raised him from lowly provincial inspector to commissioner of finance, then won him Tokugawa Tsunayoshi’s favor and a prestigious Nagasaki governorship. His detractors said he abused his power to enrich himself, and got away with it because of his talent for pleasing the right people.

Governor Nagai gestured to his companion. “This is Ohira Yonemon, chief officer of Deshima. He was just leaving to make sure no more barbarians disappear.”

Ohira wordlessly bowed his farewells. On him would rest the major blame for any problem on Deshima, Sano knew. His square jaws were clenched, his pale lips compressed, and he looked physically ill. His skin had a blanched pallor, with purplish pouches under the eyes as if he hadn’t slept in a long time. As he walked away, his rigid shoulders trembled.

The captain stepped forward. “The Honorable Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s orders,” he said, handing Governor Nagai a scroll case.

Governor Nagai read the enclosed document with a neutral expression, and his geniality didn’t waver when he addressed Sano again. “Yes. Well. Come, let’s go to my private office and discuss your plans for the inspection,” he said.