Текст книги "Island of Exiles "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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luck to you, then, and give my compliments to the inspector.

Tell him I’ll ask Dr. Nakatomi to take a look at him if he is still indisposed tomorrow.”

As Akitada walked back to the inn, he considered Nakatomi

as the fourth guest. Nakatomi had not only been Okisada’s per-

sonal physician, but it was he who had determined that the

prince had been poisoned by young Mutobe’s stew. Kumo,

Taira, and Nakatomi. It was crucial to find out what these three

men had to say to each other, and Akitada thought he knew a

way to get to the pavilion unseen.

C H A P T E R E L E V E N

T H E L A K E

Osawa was dressed and sitting in the sun on the veranda outside

his room. The veranda overlooked a narrow dusty courtyard

with a small empty koi pond and a twisted pine. Osawa no

longer looked ill. In fact, there was a sleek look of contentment

about him which changed quickly to disappointment when he

saw who had come into the room.

“Oh, it’s you. I must say you took your time. That lazy slug

Genzo has disappeared, too.”

Akitada explained and produced the letter.

Osawa made a face. “I suppose that means we’ll have to

move on tomorrow. I don’t understand what the big rush is, but

who am I to question the governor? Well, you two have had a

nice rest, anyway. You’d better both be up by dawn and have the

horses saddled. It’ll be a hard ride to Tsukahara.”

They would start their homeward loop, spending the night

in Shunsei’s monastery near Tsukahara. The monastery col-

lected the local rice taxes, and Osawa customarily visited it on

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his rounds. Monasteries also offered accommodations for trav-

elers, and, apart from the strictly vegetarian and wineless meals,

these were far more comfortable than sharing some farmer’s

hut or sleeping in the open. Osawa, Akitada knew by now, was

not given to roughing it.

Asking for instructions, Akitada was told, with some hem-

ming and hawing, to report to the landlady and make himself

generally useful. This astonished him, especially since Osawa

blushed and avoided his eyes.

In the kitchen a strange gray-haired woman was at work

preparing a meal, while their hostess, dressed in a fetching robe

with a colorful chrysanthemum pattern and with her hair

neatly tied up in a silk ribbon, gave her instructions for an elab-

orate feast.

“And be sure that there are plenty of pine mushrooms and

bamboo sprouts,” she told the older woman. “Master Osawa is

particularly fond of those. I’ll be serving him myself, but you

can bring the food and wine to the door of his room.” She

saw Akitada then. “Oh, you’re finally back. Would you bring in

more wood for the fire? There’s some soup left if you’re hungry,

but eat it quickly. I need you to go to Haru’s husband and buy

some awabi and a sea bream for your master’s dinner. His shop is next to the Bamboo Grove Restaurant. Tell him I’ll pay

later.” Seeing Akitada admiring her costume, she smiled and

added with a wink, “Your master is better and feels like a little

company.”

The older woman gave a snort, but Akitada grinned and

bowed. “Ah! Osawa is a lucky man.”

“Thank you,” his hostess said, patting her hair, and walked

away with a seductive wiggle of her slender hips.

Akitada whistled.

The elderly woman at the fire straightened up and glared at

him. “Where’s that wood?”

I s l a n d o f E x i l e s

187

Akitada brought it and then helped himself to the small bit

of cold broth with a few noodles, which was all that remained in

the pot.

“Make yourself right at home, don’t you?” sneered the old

woman.

“Just trying to save you the trouble, auntie.”

“Don’t call me auntie,” she snapped. “That’s what whores

call their old bawds. Maybe that’s what my slut of a daughter

makes of me, but I brought her up decent. Hurry up with that

soup and get the fish. I have enough to do without having to

wait for your convenience.”

Akitada gobbled his soup meekly and departed with a basket.

He knew where Haru’s husband sold his fish, but since

the restaurant was open, he decided to meet the famous Haru

herself.

He found her on the veranda, bent over to beat the dust

out of some straw mats and presenting an interestingly volup-

tuous view of her figure. His landlady’s rival, both as a hostess

and as a woman, she was about the same age but considerably

plumper.

Akitada cleared his throat. Haru swung around, broom in

hand, and looked at him, her eyes widening with pleasure.

“Welcome,

handsome,” she crooned, laughing black eyes

admiring him. “And what can little Haru do to make you com-

pletely happy?”

Midday lovemaking must be in the air in Minato, thought

Akitada. He returned her smile and stammered out his errand

like some awkward schoolboy.

“Poor boy,” she said, laying aside her broom and coming

closer. “You’re a little lost, but never mind. Does Takao treat you well?” She put her hand familiarly on his chest, feeling his muscles. “Where did that lucky girl find someone as young and

strong as you to work for her?”

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“I’m not really working there. My master’s staying at the inn

and asked me to lend a hand while she sees to his dinner.”

“So that’s the way it is.” She cocked her head. “Pity she

prefers your master. I could use someone like you to lend me a

hand.” She reached for his and placed it on her rounded hip.

“How much time can you spare me?”

Akitada could feel her warm skin through the thin fabric

and flushed in spite of himself. Haru was not in the least attrac-

tive to him, but her forwardness and overt sexual invitation

reminded him of Masako. Suddenly their recent lovemaking

struck him as no more than a coming together of two lecherous

people, and he felt a sour disgust—with himself for having lost

his self-control, and with Masako for being unchaste. He had

not been the first man to lie with her. Women were very clever

at pretending love.

But men could learn and be wary. He snatched his hand

back from Haru’s hot body and hid it behind his back. “I’ll go

see your husband. All I need is some awabi, and—”

She smiled. “Foolish man. You don’t need awabi. That’s

what old men eat to regain their vigor. All you need is a good

woman. And don’t worry about my husband; he doesn’t care.”

She stroked his shoulder and played with his sash.

Akitada retreated. There were limits to how far he was pre-

pared to go in the interest of an investigation. He wished he had

Tora here. This situation would suit his rakish lieutenant per-

fectly. He said, trying to look disappointed, “You are very kind,

but I’m afraid I can’t. They’re waiting for the fish. I’d better find your husband. Goodbye.” He bowed and turned to go.

She followed him, chuckling. “He’s out on the lake. Never

mind. I’ll see you get your fish, and the best, too, even though

that stupid Takao doesn’t deserve it.”

They passed through the restaurant, where a few locals were

noisily slurping soup, and into the kitchen. A sweating girl was

I s l a n d o f E x i l e s

189

chopping vegetables to add to the big pot which simmered on

the fire. The fish soup smelled very good, and Akitada said so.

“Would you like some?” Haru asked.

“I have no money.”

“I’ll add it to Takao’s bill,” she said, and grabbed a bowl and

the ladle. Filling the bowl generously, she handed it to him.

“Bring it along to the fish shack and tell me what she wants. You

can eat while I get the fish.”

“Some awabi, and a bream,” he said, inhaling the smell of

the soup. “Thank you for the soup. I only had a few noodles at

the inn.”

She snorted. “I’m a very good cook. Much better than

Takao. Much better in bed, too, I’ll bet.”

They passed out into the sunlight and walked to the shack

where Akitada had met Haru’s husband that morning.

“See, he’s not here,” said Haru, giving him a sideways look.

“And it’ll be hours before he gets back.”

Akitada pretended not to understand. The baskets and

casks, empty this morning, were now mostly filled with the

day’s catch.

She busied herself gathering the fish and putting them in his

basket, while he looked around with pretended interest. “Do

you sell much blowfish?”

“Fugu? ” She turned and peered into a small cask. “You want

some?” she asked, lifting up a small fish by its tail. It flapped

about and swelled into a ball. She laughed. “They say, ‘ Fugu is sweet, but life is sweeter.’ Don’t worry. I know how to clean it so it’s safe. I also know how to prepare it so you think you’ve gone

to paradise because you feel so wonderful.” She dropped the fish

back into the water with a splash.

“Oh? Are there different ways of preparing it?”

“Yes. Many people know how to make fugu safe, even in the

summer, but only a few know how to leave just a bit of the

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poison, not enough to kill you, but enough to let you visit par-

adise and come back.”

“It sounds dangerous. Is there much call for it?”

She smiled. “You’d be surprised who likes to take such risks

to reach nirvana. Of course, it’s not cheap.”

Akitada took a chance. “I heard the Second Prince was fond

of fugu,” he lied. “Do you suppose that’s what killed him?”

Her smile disappeared instantly. “Who’s been saying my fish

killed the prince?” she demanded, her eyes flashing angrily. “Was

it Takao? I had nothing to do with that, do you hear? It was bad

enough when they thought I’d poisoned my prawn stew. There

was nothing wrong with that stew when the governor’s son

picked it up. I served it in the restaurant and we ate it ourselves.

I bet that Takao’s spreading lies again because she’s jealous that

I’m a better cook and do a better business. I’ll kill that trollop.”

She grabbed up a knife, her face contorted with fury.

“No, no,” Akitada said, eyeing the knife uneasily in case she

might force her way past by slashing at him. “Please don’t get

excited, Haru. It wasn’t Takao. I heard the story of the poisoning

in Mano. Hearing you talk about fugu made me think, that’s all.”

She stared at him, then put the knife down. “People talk too

much,” she said in a tired voice. “It’s true the prince liked fugu, but I had nothing to do with his death. And that’s all I’ve got to say.”

She had lost interest in him, and Akitada was glad to make

his escape so easily. In spite of her denials, he was certain that

she, and her husband, knew something that was connected with

the prince’s death and the poisonous fugu fish.

Having delivered the fish to Takao’s mother and fetched

some water for her, he found that she wished him gone. Snatch-

ing up a rice dumpling in lieu of his evening meal, he left for

the lake.

When he passed Sakamoto’s house, he saw that the gates

were closed again and all was quiet inside. He had to walk a long

I s l a n d o f E x i l e s

191

way before he found a place to get down to the water. An over-

grown field, shaded by large firs and oaks, suited him perfectly.

He worked his way through the undergrowth and brambles to

the muddy bank, where thick reeds hid most of the lake, stirring

up first a rabbit and then a pair of ducks, which protested loudly

and flew off with a clatter of wings. He was fond of waterfowl,

but could have done without them at this juncture. Taking off

his boots and outer robe, he waded into the water, parting the

reeds until they thinned enough for him to see along the shore

to Sakamoto’s place. He recognized it immediately because it

was the only one with a pavilion on the lakeshore. The distance

was shorter than he had expected, because the lake formed a

small bay here, and the road he had followed had made a wide

loop. There was no one in the pavilion yet.

He glanced up at the sun: at least an hour until sunset.

Returning to shore, he put on his robe and boots again, found a

dry and comfortable spot among the grass and buttercups, and

lay down for a nap.

When he awoke, the shadows had thickened and gnats had

left behind itching spots on his face and hands. The sun was

almost gone, and the sky had changed to a soft lavender. Akitada

got up and stretched, disturbing a large ibis fishing in the shal-

lows. It thrashed away through the reeds with a clatter, its curv-

ing red beak and pink flight feathers bright against the large

white body, then took flight over the open water, followed by

the scolding ducks.

Waterfowl presented an unforeseen problem. Ducks in par-

ticular always set up a loud clamor when disturbed. But he would

have to risk that. He decided to do some more exploring first.

This time he not only removed his boots and robe, but his pants

and loincloth also, and waded naked into the muddy water,

sloshing along, his bare feet sinking deep into the mud and

feeling their way among sharp bits of debris and reed stubble.

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When he emerged from the reeds, the water was chest-high

and the bottom of the lake smoother and less soft. Some fisher-

men were a long way out in the middle of the lake. They would

hardly see a swimmer at that distance, and as soon as the sun

was gone, they would be making for home.

He swam about a little, the water cool against his hot and

itchy skin, and felt quite cheerful and optimistic about his plan.

Above, seagulls dipped and dove, their wingtips flashing gold in

the last rays of the sun, their cries remote and mournful. He had

a good view of the shoreline and saw that he would have to rely

on the reeds to hide him.

And there they came, small figures moving down the hill-

side from Sakamoto’s villa, a servant running ahead carrying a

gleaming lantern. It was time.

Akitada swam back to his hiding place to rest a little and eat

his rice dumpling. He did not want his empty stomach giving

him away with inappropriate rumblings later.

Then he set out, cutting boldly across the small bay, swim-

ming smoothly. The sun had disappeared behind Mount

Kimpoku, and the land lay in shadow while the sky still blazed a

fiery red, turning the surface of the lake the color of blood. The

fishermen were headed home to their families, and up ahead, lit

eerily by lanterns, waited the pavilion where an imperial prince

had died of poison.

He caught glimpses of the seated men and saw servants

popping up and disappearing as they brought food, knelt to

serve, and then left again. The closer he got, the more chance

there was that someone would glance his way and notice the

head of a swimmer bobbing in the lake. And this time he would

not be able to talk himself out of it with Kumo.

When he was within a hundred feet, he turned back toward

the reeds and slipped into their protection. Progress became slow

and difficult. Akitada moved in a crouch, using channels left by

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193

fishermen whenever possible. Once he froze after raising an egret.

It flew off, awkwardly flapping its huge wings until it was air-

borne and soared like a silver ghost across the darkening sky.

Abruptly the reeds stopped, and an open channel of water

stretched between him and the pavilion. Someone had cleared

away the water grasses to make sure no boats could approach

the pavilion unseen. Such precautions made his undertaking

seem all the more vital.

Up in the pavilion, in the yellow light of lanterns hanging

from the eaves, he could see the four men. They sat facing each

other and were eating and talking quietly.

Kumo, the only one who wore his hair loose, had his back to

Akitada. Next to Kumo sat the gray-haired, round-shouldered

Sakamoto. Another old man, probably Taira, with white hair

and improbably black brows, looking bent with age and

scrawny as an old crow in his black robe, sat across from

Sakamoto. The fourth man must be Nakatomi. He was partially

hidden by Kumo’s broad back, but wore a rich robe of patterned

blue brocade. Whoever he was, fortune had treated him well.

But Akitada could not remain forever in the shelter of the

reeds. He did not relish the idea of crossing open water, but

decided that, being in the light, the four men would not notice

a lone swimmer in the dark lake. This conviction was almost

immediately put to the test when Kumo got up and stepped to

the balustrade. Akitada sank down, keeping his face half sub-

merged. But Kumo merely emptied the dregs from his wine cup

and returned to the others.

Moving slowly and smoothly so he would not make any

noisy splashes, Akitada half swam, half crawled through the

shallow water, keeping his face down so that his dark hair would

blend with the water.

When he was close enough to hear them, the water no

longer covered him completely and he had to hurry. Slithering

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across the mud on his belly, he scraped his skin painfully on

stubble, but he kept his face down until he reached cover.

He had almost made it when there was a shout above, and

he stopped. Naked and defenseless, he lay in the mud, imagin-

ing an arrow in his back, though it was not likely that any of the

four was armed. But nothing happened, and after a moment he

peered up. The surly servant was running up the steps, and

Sakamoto asked for more wine.

With a sigh of relief, Akitada crawled into the darkness

under the pavilion and waited for his heart to stop pounding

and his eyes to adjust. A few straggling weeds grew on the

muddy bank he crouched on. If he raised himself to his knees,

he could touch the boards above his head. Wide cracks between

the boards let light fall through in slender ribbons which undu-

lated on the waves slapping softly against the timbers and creep-

ing up the shore. He could hear the conversation of the men

above as perfectly as if he were sitting beside them.

The supporting beams—there were eight of them—rested

on large flat rocks covered with slimy moss. The three outer-

most supports disappeared into the lake water. Beyond was the

lake and darkness.

Someone—he did not recognize the voice—was saying in a

peevish tone, “You should really maintain your property better,

Taro. These boards creak alarmingly every time that fat servant

steps on them.”

Sakamoto sounded humble and apologetic. “I had no inten-

tion of ever using this place again after the tragedy. But the

present emergency—”

There was a snort of derision.

Kumo cut in, “We all agreed that this meeting needs the pri-

vacy which only this pavilion affords.”

Akitada smiled to himself and brushed off a mosquito with

muddy fingers. More of the pesky insects hovered in the thin

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195

beams of light, and he considered slipping back into the water.

Someone moved above, and a thin cloud of dust descended. He

looked up, wondering how strong the old floor was.

They had fallen silent after Kumo’s words. Someone belched

loudly.

Then the first speaker—he guessed it was Taira—spoke again.

“I personally saw no need for all this fuss,” he said, his voice tight and bitter and the tone accusatory. “The worst possible thing you

could do was to draw attention to us at this juncture. The trial is next week, and I see no reason why it should not go the way we

expect. Tomo will make certain; won’t you, Tomo?”

Tomo? Oh, yes. Nakatomi, the physician.

“I shall testify to nothing but the truth,” a sharp, slightly

nasal voice responded.

Someone muttered something.

“Yes, Tomo,” drawled Kumo, “provided you can confine

yourself to the cause of death.”

“What else would a physician be asked about? I am not a

witness or a suspect. I was not here at the time, as you recall.”

“Suspect?” cried Sakamoto. “You think we are suspects? Dear

heaven, has it come to that? Oh, why did this have to happen?”

“Stop that foolish whining,” snapped Taira.

“What if the judge asks Nakatomi about the prince’s health?

What will we do then?” Sakamoto’s voice was tense and wor-

ried. “He was his personal physician, after all.”

“The only thing I worry about is a case of nerves like yours,”

Taira reproved him. “Such loss of self-control could ruin us all.”

There was a gasp, then Sakamoto’s trembling voice: “Forgive

me, my lord. You know you can count on me. It’s just that this

was not in the plan.”

Below, Akitada let out a soft sigh. So there had been a plan.

Perhaps there still was one. But the prince’s death had not been

part of their scheme. What had happened?

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Kumo said abruptly, “There is no need to quarrel among

ourselves. It strikes me, though, that Shunsei is not here, and

him I do worry about. He is emotional and not very bright. And he is a witness who will testify at the trial.”

Taira said, “Shunsei is not here because he is no part of this

and knows nothing for the reasons you have just stated. How-

ever, I have had a talk with him about his testimony.”

Two people spoke up at once. Akitada could not make out

their words.

Then Taira spoke slowly and clearly, as if to foolish children.

“No. Shunsei is completely loyal to the prince, whom he wor-

ships even more assiduously than the Buddha. I made it clear to

him that revealing any part of the prince’s private life would

destroy his memory. The fellow wept and swore by all that’s

holy that he would never besmirch the name of his beloved.”

Nakatomi laughed. He said something about splitting the

peach to find the Buddha, but Kumo warned, “Careful! Here

comes more wine.”

There was a short silence. Akitada heard the pavilion stairs

groaning and creaking. Then heavy slapping steps crossed

above. Apparently the fat barefooted youth had arrived to refill

the wine flasks. He looked up at the black-stained boards

above his head, and saw them bending. More clouds of dust de-

scended. The thought crossed Akitada’s mind that he might be

crushed underneath the combined weight of the pavilion, the

four conspirators, and the fat servant.

What happened was not quite that bad, but bad enough.

Sakamoto cried, “Watch out, you oaf!”

Next there was a heavy thump, and a sharp cracking sound,

then a tearing and splintering. One of the wide boards split and

a fat naked leg descended to the accompaniment of a terrific

squeal of pain. Akitada stared at a dirty foot, dangling and

twitching inches from his face. Above, all hell broke loose. Men

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197

shouted, dishes clattered, more steps caused more dust and

splinters to descend. And the fat servant still wailed. He wailed

steadily for more than a minute before he settled down to

moaning and sobbing.

Akitada withdrew to a corner near the outer edge of the

pavilion.

Upstairs, the other servant joined the fracas and shouted at

the unfortunate fat youth to get his leg out of the hole. Akitada

could see that the dangling limb was bleeding slightly. The fat

upper thigh was held in place by a large splinter which threat-

ened to penetrate more deeply if the leg was pulled upward. The

youth explained his predicament amid loud groans and sobs.

“Well, go down there and free him,” snapped Kumo.

The other servant protested shrilly that he could not swim.

The lakeside balustrade creaked, and Kumo pointed out that the

water was quite shallow. Kumo, and perhaps the others, were

scanning the surrounding lake and shore. Akitada was trapped

under the pavilion, and the surly servant was about to join him.

Discovery was imminent. Keeping close to the corner support,

Akitada let his body slip into the water until only his head

protruded.

Sounds from the stairs suggested that some of the guests

were abandoning the pavilion for safer ground from which to

watch the rescue operation. Next came the telltale squelching as

the servant approached through the mud from the lake side. He

had to bend to squeeze under the pavilion. Akitada could see

him only as a darker blob against the faintly lit grayness outside.

The man muttered under his breath, then called out, “Where

the devil are you? I can’t see a thing.”

The fat leg wiggled, and a pained voice cried, “Here. Be care-

ful! It hurts dreadfully.”

The older man found the leg and gave it an exploratory

push upward, which resulted in an earsplitting scream. The

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rescuer abandoned the leg and splashed back to the edge of the

pavilion.

“Got to cut it off,” he shouted to someone on top. “I’ll need

a knife and a saw.”

The unfortunate youth above started babbling wildly that

he did not want it cut off. A lengthy discussion followed, suc-

ceeded by a tense wait during which the older servant could be

heard slapping mosquitoes and muttering imprecations against

gluttony and stupidity. Above, the soft sobbing and moaning

continued. And Akitada waited tensely.

In time someone passed tools to the resentful rescuer below.

He returned to the twitching leg and proceeded to saw and cut

the boards, while the fat youth squealed and pleaded. Sakamoto

added his own shouts from a safe distance, encouraging one

servant while telling the other what a useless fool he was to de-

stroy his master’s property.

The time crawled for Akitada, but eventually the squealing

above and cursing below stopped. The leg was free, and some-

one, Kumo presumably, hauled the youth out of the hole. The

ill-tempered servant departed, still muttering, and silence fell.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Akitada emerged from under the

pavilion. He listened and looked about. When all seemed clear,

he quickly swam back into the reeds and from there to where he

had left his clothes. As he dried himself with his loincloth and

dressed again, the nervous tension of the past hour melted and

he started shaking with laughter.

It was a while before he calmed down and realized that, for