Текст книги "Island of Exiles "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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dreds of increasingly smaller saints, each representing multiple

worlds. The court had always perceived an analogy between this

Buddha and the emperor who, surrounded by his great minis-

ters, each in charge of his own department of lesser officials,

ruled the lives of the people down to the least significant per-

sons in the realm. When the emperor was a descendant of gods,

the religious hierarchy validated the secular one. Okisada had

certainly not lost his delusions of godlike majesty in exile.

But what of Shunsei? Apparently the young monk now

spent his days and nights in front of the mandala. Praying?

Grieving for his lover? Meditating in an effort to achieve

enlightenment? Or atoning for a mortal sin?

The monk stood, waiting passively, patiently, his eyes low-

ered and his hands folded in the sleeves of his black robe. Up

close, he was older than Akitada had at first thought. He must

be well into his thirties, no boy but a mature man. He also

looked frail and ill, as if the childish flesh had fallen away, the soft skin had lost its healthy glow, and the rounded contours of

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cheek and chin had disappeared to leave behind the finely

drawn features of total abstinence. Startlingly, the very large,

soft, and long-lashed eyes and the softly curving lips were still

there and powerfully sensual in the pale, thin face.

Shunsei raised those tender liquid eyes to Akitada’s. “Would

you like to sit down?” he asked in the same soft voice. “I have

only water to offer you.”

“Thank you. I need nothing.” Akitada seated himself on the

mat and gestured toward the mandala. “I have never seen a

more beautiful painting of Roshana,” he said.

“He sent for it when he built this hall. Now I pray to him.

Perhaps, someday soon, he will allow me to join him.”

Somehow this strange statement made sense. Shunsei’s

identification of the Buddha with the late prince might have

been the result of excessive grief, but Akitada suspected that

Okisada had planted the seed of worship in the young monk’s

mind a long time ago. For the first time he wondered about

Okisada’s physical appearance. He must have been old enough

to be Shunsei’s father. Of course, Shunsei himself looked decep-

tively young because of his small size and dainty shape. The

only imperial princes Akitada had met had been portly men of

undistinguished appearance. How, then, had Okisada attracted

such deep devotion in his lover unless it was through linking

physical lust to spiritual worship? The thought was disturbing,

and Akitada glanced away from those soft eyes and curving lips

to the Roshana Buddha.

“What do you wish to know?” the soft voice asked.

Akitada pulled his thoughts together. He had a murder to

solve and a conspiracy to prevent. “Tell me about him,” he

begged.

“Why?”

Akitada phrased his response carefully. “I have been sent

here. In the capital his death will raise questions. I have already I s l a n d o f E x i l e s

217

spoken to the high constable and Professor Sakamoto and I

have listened to Lord Taira and the prince’s physician, but still

some of the answers escape me.”

It was surprising how easily these half-truths came to his

tongue, and amazing how this simple monk accepted them

without question. He even smiled a little. “Yes, they all loved

him,” he said with a nod, “but not the same as I. We, he and I,

became as one when we were together. When he entered the

dark path, I wished to join him but couldn’t. Not then, but soon

now.” He nodded again and looked lovingly at the altar.

“Will you tell me about it?”

“Yes. It is good that they should know in the capital. That his

family should know, and the whole world. You see, he knew the

great transformation was approaching. At first he thought it

was just an indisposition. He called his doctor in and took med-

icine, and when the pains got very bad he would come to me,

and I would chant as I rubbed his back and his aching belly.”

Akitada stared at Shunsei. He had a strange sense that the

floor beneath him had lost its solidity and there was nothing to

hold on to. “The prince was ill?” he asked.

“At first that was what we thought, he and I. I gave him

relief, he said, but now I know the great transformation had al-

ready begun. The pain came more and more often, until he

wished for release from this world. I thought my weak prayers

had failed, and lost my faith.” He hung his head and looked

down at his hands, which rested in his lap.

Dazedly Akitada followed his glance. Beautiful hands, he

thought, long-fingered and shapely, covered with the same

translucent skin as his face. Curled together, they lay passively

where once, no doubt, the dead lover’s hands had roamed,

where Shunsei and Okisada had found the center of their

universe together. The thought was disturbingly erotic, and

Akitada felt hot and ashamed. He shifted to look back at the

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mandala. Death, religious ecstasy, and sexual arousal were

perhaps not far apart. The thought would be rejected as blas-

phemous by most, but here was at least one man who, in the

simplicity of his faith and because of repressed desires, had

equated physical lovemaking with spiritual worship. How

could you judge a man’s faith?

Was this the secret the others had wanted to hide at all cost?

That the prince had died from a severe and protracted illness?

That would destroy the case against Mutobe and his son.

But what of the poisoned dog? Or had there been a dog?

Perhaps that was a lie, too. Or the dog had been poisoned as an

afterthought. And then another, more terrible thought entered

Akitada’s mind. What if Okisada had become ill because some-

one had administered poison to him over a period of time?

Shunsei’s account of Okisada’s “transformation” could describe

the effects of systematic poisoning, and his death in the pavilion

would have marked the final dose. That would also clear young

Mutobe, who could not have had the opportunity to adminis-

ter all the prior doses. But why kill Okisada, whose return to

imperial power had been the object of the plot? Was there

someone else who wished Okisada dead? Akitada shook his

head in confusion.

Shunsei’s soft sigh brought him back. The monk said

gravely, “Do not doubt the miracle, as I did. He achieved what

we had both prayed for, a state of blessedness, a cessation of

pain. I know, for he has come and told me so.”

Akitada looked at Shunsei’s deep-set, feverish eyes and felt a

great pity. This man was dying himself, by his own choice, and

in the final stages of starvation and meditation he must have

been hallucinating.

Kumo, Taira, and Sakamoto need not worry about his testi-

mony. Shunsei would not live long enough to travel to Mano.

Of course, there was still Nakatomi. They had wanted the

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

219

physician to testify only to the cause of death, and not touch on

the prince’s prior state of health. They had known of his illness.

But Akitada’s eavesdropping had convinced him that his death

had shocked and surprised them. Sakamoto in particular had

complained bitterly about it. Only one fact was certain: they

all wanted the governor’s son convicted of murder as soon as

possible.

Shunsei still sat quietly looking down at his hands.

“You knew he would die?” Akitada asked.

The monk raised his eyes and smiled sweetly. “Oh, yes. Only

not so soon.”

“And young Mutobe? Is he to die also?”

The smile faded to sadness. “If it is his karma. We all

must die.”

Akitada gritted his teeth. A moment ago he thought he had

his answer, but Shunsei seemed to have changed his mind again.

Perhaps he was dealing with a madman after all. He looked long

into Shunsei’s eyes. Impossible to tell. The large black orbs

gazed back calmly.

“But you do not believe that he murdered the prince?”

Akitada finally asked bluntly.

Shunsei smiled again. “He assisted in the transformation,”

he corrected.

“What? How?”

“He helped him achieve nirvana more quickly.”

Akitada staggered to his feet. He had failed. Shunsei, who

had been present, truly believed that young Mutobe had poi-

soned Okisada. “Thank you,” he muttered, and bowed.

Shunsei also rose. He swayed a little as if light-headed.

“Thank you for coming,” he said politely. “Please tell them what

I said. His memory will be sacred forever.”

Blindly, Akitada walked to the door, followed by Shunsei.

On the steps, he turned one more time to look back at the other

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man, who stood on the veranda, supporting himself against a

column. The moon cast an eerie whiteness over his face, sharp-

ening the angles of the underlying skull and turning the eyes

into fathomless pools of darkness.

On some strange impulse, Akitada said, “I was told the

prince enjoyed fugu. Did he, by any chance, eat some the day he died?”

This time, Shunsei’s smile broke the spell of strangeness and

made him almost human again. “Oh, yes. The blowfish. He sent

me to the fisherman’s wife for it. He was not well and wished to

be strong for the meeting. He always enjoyed fugu, but since his illness he also derived relief from it.”

Akitada reached for the railing. “But . . . no fugu was served to the others.”

“Oh, no. He prepared it himself in his room and carried a

small dose with him. He was very familiar with the prepara-

tion.” Shunsei pressed his palms together and bowed. Then he

disappeared back into the room, extinguishing the lights until

all was plunged into darkness again.

Akitada groped his way back to the monks’ dormitory, his

mind as murky as the darkness of the forest around him. Had

Okisada died by accidentally poisoning himself?

Or had he committed suicide to escape the torment of his

pain?

C H A P T E R T H I R T E E N

L I E U T E NA N T WA DA

Akitada woke. At first he was not certain what had disturbed

his sleep because all was dark and silent. He turned over, but the

memories of the previous day began to crowd in. It was finally

over and soon he would be home. The prince had taken the poi-

son himself. Okisada might have mistaken the dosage or, in the

knowledge of a slow and increasingly painful death, decided to

end it quickly, but ultimately it did not matter. He was dead, all

danger of his leading another rebellion was over, and the con-

spiracy against the governor would fall apart as soon as the fact

was known. True, Shunsei’s condition was worrisome, but there

was at least one other person who knew that the prince had

eaten blowfish: his regular supplier, Haru.

He sat up and stretched. Hearing soft noises next door in

Osawa’s room, he got up, opened the door, and peered out. It

was still night in the forest, but the sky above the trees was al-

ready turning the deep blue-black which precedes dawn, and a

few birds chirped sleepily.

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It was unusual for Osawa to rise this early, but he, too, now

had someone to rush back to. Akitada smiled, yawned, and took

a few deep breaths of the pine-scented air. It was deliciously

cool and he hated to leave the woods for the hot plain again, but

tonight they would be back in Mano.

Akitada looked at Osawa’s closed door and decided to get

dressed. If Osawa was in such a hurry, he was not going to delay

him. The sooner he could settle this affair and leave Sadoshima,

the better. He longed for his family with an almost painful

intensity.

After lighting the oil lamp, he reached for the blue robe he

had been wearing for days. It looked and smelled the worse for

the hard wear. In his bag was still his own robe of plain brown

silk, the one he had arrived in and which had been stained and

torn during those first appalling days. He shook his head at the

memory of the misery suffered by convicts.

He rolled up the blue robe and shook out the brown one

after removing the flute from its folds. Surely Osawa would not

mind if he put on clean clothes for the trip back. They had no

more official calls to make on the way.

The silk robe was a little creased, but it looked and smelled a

great deal better than the blue one. He slipped it on and fas-

tened the black sash about his waist. Reaching up to adjust the

collar, he touched the stiffness of the documents between the

layers of fabric. They, too, would soon no longer be needed. He

thought guiltily of Masako, who had not only nursed him

back to health, but had washed and mended his clothes. He was

ashamed of having rejected her affection so harshly. Tonight

he would speak to her, explain his situation, and offer

her . . . what? He thought he would know once he knew her real

feelings for him.

Smoothing down the familiar cool silk, he felt relief that it

was over. The judge, once informed of the facts, would know

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

223

what questions to ask. If Shunsei was too weak to travel, he

could sign an affidavit. Taira would be called to testify, and

Haru. Nakatomi would be forced to speak about Okisada’s ill-

ness. Finally, Sakamoto would be confronted with the mass of

evidence, and he would break and reveal the plot to build a

murder case against the governor’s son. Yes, it should all unravel

nicely, even without Shunsei’s presence.

He used his fingers to comb his beard and hair, retied his

topknot, and checked the neck of his robe again. It bulged a bit,

refused to lie down flat. He patted the fabric down firmly, but it

still buckled. With his index finger he checked the seam where

he had inserted the documents and found it torn.

His heart pounding, Akitada fished out the papers and

unfolded them. For a long time he stared in disbelief at the

blank sheets of ordinary paper.

He turned them this way and that, wondering foolishly

if the august words had somehow faded, not wanting to believe

the obvious, that someone had stolen his imperial orders and

the governor’s safe conduct, and with them his identity.

Sweat broke out on his forehead. He tried to remember

when he had last seen the documents. They had still been there

after he left Mano, after Masako had found them without real-

izing what they were.

Or perhaps she had realized only too well! For the docu-

ments to have been stolen from such a hiding place, the thief

must have known what to look for and where. Had Masako

revealed his secret, perhaps unintentionally?

If so, he had been allowed to leave Mano with the docu-

ments. Yes, the papers had still been in his robe on the road to

Kumo’s manor. Later he had worn his blue clerk’s robe and,

foolishly, he had only checked the documents by touch, and

not often that. Where had the theft happened? At Kumo’s

manor or in Minato? He had slept with the saddlebags under

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his head in the groom’s room and also later in Takao’s kitchen,

but there had been many times when his saddlebags had lain

somewhere while he was doing Osawa’s bidding. He had wor-

ried more about the flute than the documents.

Anyone could have removed the papers anywhere between

Minato and here, but surely the most likely thief was Genzo.

Seimei would say, “Spilled water does not return to its

pail.” It was more important to think about what would hap-

pen next.

He could not raise an outcry. What could Osawa do, even if

he believed him? No, he must return to Mano as quickly as pos-

sible. Thank heaven Mutobe had seen the papers and could

vouch for him.

Akitada packed the blue robe, the flute, and his other be-

longings into his saddlebags and walked through the waking

forest to the monastery stable to saddle the horses. But there a

second shock awaited him.

A distraught Osawa was getting in the saddle, while a red-

cheeked novice was holding the reins and listening to Osawa’s

agitated instructions with an expression of blank confusion on

his young face.

“Why the rush, Master Osawa?” Akitada called out.

Osawa turned. “Oh, there you are. Good. I have no time. I’m

off to Minato this instant. Takao’s had an accident. Very bad.

You must go on to Mano. There”—he flung a hand toward a

small pile of boxes and bundles—“are the records. All of them.

Also my letter of resignation. Make my excuses to the governor.”

He pulled the reins from the novice’s hand and dug his heels in

the horse’s flank.

“Wait . . .” cried Akitada, but Osawa was already cantering

down the forest path at breakneck speed, the skirts of his gown

fluttering behind him as he disappeared around the first bend

of the track.

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

225

Akitada and the novice looked at each other. The novice

shrugged and smiled.

“What happened?” Akitada asked.

“Not sure. I couldn’t understand the gentleman too well. He

came rushing up to the stable, shouting for his horse. I didn’t

know which one, and he was jumping up and down, crying it

was a matter of life and death. I finally found the right horse,

and he had all these instructions. For you, I suppose. I didn’t

really understand them at all.”

“But how . . . ? Did a messenger arrive for him?”

The novice nodded. “A man came on a horse and asked the

way to the gentleman’s room. I took his horse and showed him.”

“His name?”

The youngster looked blank again. “I didn’t ask. He was

short and had a nose like a beak.”

Akitada stared down the path Osawa had taken. So the bird-

faced man had reappeared. He wished Osawa had knocked

on his door or at least discussed the matter before taking off so

precipitously.

“Get my horse,” he told the novice, then changed his mind.

“Never mind. I’ll do it.” He ran to the stable. Dropping his sad-

dlebags on the ground beside the mule, he threw blanket and

saddle on his horse, which sensed his agitation and sidestepped

nervously. The young monk came to lend a hand. Leading the

horse out, Akitada told him, “I’ll be back. Load the mule in the

meantime!” Then he swung himself into the saddle and kicked

his heels into the animal’s flanks.

He plunged down the path after Osawa, bent forward, his

eye on the path, worried that his mount might stumble and

hurt itself but almost hoping that Osawa, not the best rider, had

been thrown. No such luck. The ground leveled, and Tsukahara

lay ahead, and beyond stretched the empty road. Akitada reined

in and turned back. He could not catch up with Osawa without

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injuring his animal, and he needed it to get to Mano as quickly

as possible.

He worried briefly about what the unsuspecting Osawa might

be running into, hoping it had nothing to do with the theft of his

papers. But he did not believe in coincidence and knew better. In

any case, the urgency of reaching Mano had just increased a hun-

dredfold. The message to Osawa was almost certainly a fabrica-

tion, Takao’s accident trumped up to send Osawa back to Minato,

leaving Akitada unaccompanied and without papers. For a pris-

oner to be caught without proper documentation while in posses-

sion of an official’s property was enough to subject him at the very least to the most severe and painful interrogation. His only safety lay in reaching provincial headquarters before he was stopped.

Back at the monastery stables, the young monk had the

mule ready, and Akitada asked directions to Mano. He would

have to go down the mountain to Tsukahara again, he was told,

and from there take a road southwestward along the foot of the

mountains. “Not far!” the novice said with a cheerful smile.

“Only a day by horse.”

Only a day!

Akitada left the monastery, convinced he was riding into an

ambush. Saving his horse and the laden mule, he descended the

mountain much more slowly this time. His eyes roamed ahead

constantly, and he worried about every bend in the road, keep-

ing his ears alert for the sound of weapons and armor, knowing

that he had nothing with which to defend himself.

He reached the valley safely, but Tsukahara, the home of

Lord Taira, was the next danger spot. He passed through the vil-

lage quickly, keeping a wary eye out, suspecting even a harmless

group of poor farmers who had gathered before the shrine. But

they merely turned and stared at him in the way of country

people who see few strangers. When Akitada found the cross-

roads to Mano, he left Tsukahara behind, breathing more easily.

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

227

If he had been familiar with the island, he would have

tried to find a less obvious route. He could not rid himself of the conviction that, after the unnatural calm of the past days, his

enemies were about to act. Whoever had arranged to steal his

papers and send Osawa back to Minato knew very well who

Taketsuna really was and why he was in Sadoshima. He or they

would hardly let him live. The most frustrating thing was that

he still did not know exactly with whom he was dealing.

Toward noon of a tense but uneventful journey, Akitada

became aware of hunger. In his rush, he had left the monastery

without eating or taking provisions for the day. Though he still

had a few coppers, he did not dare use them. But when the road

crossed a stream, he broke his journey. He took some of the

baggage off the mule—an astonishingly well behaved creature—

and led both animals, one after the other, down to the water.

Then he searched the saddlebags for food and came up with

Osawa’s silk pouch full of coins and a stale and misshapen rice

dumpling left over from some earlier picnic. The money he put

back, shaking his head. Osawa had been truly upset, to go off

without his funds. Having eaten the dumpling and drunk his

fill from the stream, he loaded the mule again and returned to

the road.

By now he was puzzled that he had been allowed to get

this far. There were few other travelers on the road, and none

gave him a second glance on the final stretch to Mano. When

the road turned westward, the sun sank blindingly low and

horse and mule showed the first signs of fatigue. But he passed

over the last hillock and saw Sawata Bay spread before him, a

sheet of molten gold. The huddle of brown roofs that was Mano

was little more than a mile away. He had done it. Possibly there

was some slight danger still as he passed through town, but by

then he would be too close to provincial headquarters to suffer

more than a minor delay until Mutobe was notified.

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Blinking against the brightness of sun and sea, he tried to

increase his speed to a canter, but the mule finally balked. He

pulled on its lead; it snorted and shook its head and tried to dig

in its hooves.

Preoccupied with the recalcitrant beast, Akitada did not see

the men stepping from the trees up ahead. When he did, his

stomach lurched. Still blinded by the sun, he squinted at them.

There were six, all brawny men with hard faces and some sort of

weapon in their hands. Highway robbers? Pirates on a landfall?

Akitada stopped his horse and peered at them. Their clothes

looked rough but serviceable, too good for robbers or pirates.

And there was a certain uniformity about them. All wore brown

jackets with leather belts about their middle and a chain

wrapped about that. Constables?

Then a familiar red-coated figure stepped out into the road

to wait, legs apart and arms folded, in front of the six men

in brown. He was armed with sword and long bow. Wada. The

law. He would be arrested and escorted to the provincial jail.

Akitada almost smiled with relief.

Urging his horse forward, he stopped before Wada. His

relief faded a little when he saw the man’s face.

An unpleasant smile twitched the lieutenant’s thin mus-

tache. “Ah,” he said, “what have we here? A convict, and in pos-

session of a horse and a mule. We met only recently, I believe,

and already I find you a runaway?”

“I did not run away, Lieutenant. I’ve been on an assignment

for the governor and am on my way back.” Akitada glanced over

his shoulder and added, “I would be glad of an escort, though.

Someone may be trying to kill me.”

Wada guffawed and turned to his constables, who grinned.

“Did you hear that? Someone’s trying to kill him! He’s funny, this

one. Says he’s on official business and wants a police escort, what?”

They burst into laughter.

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

229

“Silence!” barked Wada.

The laughter stopped abruptly. The way they looked at him

reminded Akitada of a pack of hungry dogs who had found a

helpless rabbit.

Wada seemed to be enjoying himself. “The fun’s over. Who

would send a convict on a trip with a horse and a mule and all

sorts of valuable equipment?” he sneered, then waved his men

forward. “Search him and the saddlebags.”

The constables jumped into action. In a moment, Akitada

was pulled from his horse and pushed into the dirt. Two men

knelt on him, pulling his arms behind his back and wrapping a

thin chain around both wrists. It was standard procedure in the

apprehension of criminals, but he had never realized how

painful tightly wrapped chain could be and gritted his teeth to

keep from crying out. He had to remain calm at all cost. Wada,

no matter how ruthless he was in his treatment of convicts

and how stupid he might be in this instance, was still an official, and one who had been appointed to his present position

by someone in authority. He was doing his duty in arresting the

supposed escapee. The problem could be worked out later. The

important thing was to be cooperative and not give the man an

excuse for more physical abuse.

They pulled him to his feet and searched him. The impe-

rial documents being lost, along with Mutobe’s safe-conduct,

Akitada submitted meekly, which did not prevent them from

pummeling and kicking him a few times.

They found nothing, but the mule’s burden caused an out-

cry. “Papers,” cried one of the searchers. “A flute,” cried another, tossing Ribata’s precious instrument to Wada. Akitada winced,

but Wada caught it, glanced at it incuriously, and tossed it back.

This time the flute fell between the mule’s hooves, and Akitada

instinctively moved to rescue it. He was jerked back instantly

and painfully.

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Wada cried, “Wait. It must be valuable. Pick it up. What else

is there?”

“This, Lieutenant,” cried a man triumphantly, holding up

Osawa’s silk pouch and jingling it. “He’s a thief, all right.”

Akitada silently cursed Osawa’s forgetfulness.

Wada rushed over. He opened the pouch, shook out and

counted the silver and copper, and then extracted some papers.

“Belongs to a man called Osawa,” he said. “A provincial inspec-

tor of taxes.” He almost purred when he asked Akitada, “What

did you do with him?”

“Nothing. Osawa had to go back to Minato and sent me on

by myself.” Akitada knew how this must sound, but was shocked

by the viciousness of Wada’s reaction. Wada snatched one of

the short whips from a constable’s leather belt and lashed

him across the face with it. The pain was much sharper than

he could have imagined. Tears blinded his eyes, and he heard

Wada sneer, “I warned you that the fun is over. You don’t listen

well, do you?”

Akitada was seized by an unreasoning fury. The insult was

too much. He would kill the man, but not now, not while Wada

had the upper hand. Focusing was difficult. He blinked away the

tears. His face was bleeding, and he licked the salty drops from

his lips. “Lieutenant,” he forced himself to beg, “please take me

to the governor. He’ll explain.”

“The governor?” Wada’s eyes grew round with pretended

shock. “You want me to trouble the governor with this? You

think he likes me to bring him every robber, thief, and killer

we catch?”

“I did not rob, steal, or kill anyone,” Akitada began again,

but it was useless.

“Enough chatter!” snapped Wada. “Take him into those

woods over there. We’ll soon sort out what he’s done with the

body of this Osawa.”

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

231

It was getting out of hand. Once the sadistic Wada and his

thugs got him out of sight of passersby, it would be too late to

remonstrate. “Lieutenant,” Akitada said, drawing himself up as

much as he could under the circumstances. “You are making a

mistake. I am not a convict, but a government official. I demand

that you take me to Governor Mutobe this instant.”

Wada chuckled. “You’ve got to give it to him. He’s pretty

good,” he said to his men, who guffawed again. “All right. Let’s

show him some fun!” He marched ahead toward a cluster of

trees, and Akitada’s guards obliged with some well-placed kicks

to his lower back which sent him staggering after Wada.

Dear heaven, he thought, as he stumbled toward the woods,

let me get out of this alive and I’ll never be off my guard

again. He recalled vividly the battered face and body of little

Jisei. Staring at Wada’s swaggering back, he tried to think of

some way to talk himself out of this. Then he glanced at the

constable who held his chain, wondering about an evasive ac-

tion he could take to escape. At least his legs were not tied.

Maybe he could pull the chain out of his guard’s hand and run.

Wada had a bow and arrows. Still, it was worth a try if nothing

else offered.

“Lieutenant,” he called out, “if you will stop this nonsense,

I’ll explain before it is too late. There are matters you’re not

aware of, and they will be easy enough to verify.”

Wada did not stop.

They passed into the trees, and the constables moved in

more closely until they reached a clearing, and Akitada saw

their horses and a small pile of wooden cudgels near a tree.

Cudgels? The moment he realized they had been prepared for

him, he exploded into action. Kicking out at the constable

on his right, he flung himself forward, feeling the chain bite his

wrists and his arms jerking up under the strain. His shoulders

were almost wrenched from their sockets, but he pulled away

232

I . J . P a r k e r

with all his strength, knowing that if he did not get free, much

worse awaited him.

And he almost made it. In the confused shouting and angry

cries, he felt the chain slacken and took off, twisting past one of the constables to loop back toward the road, dodging another

man, and thinking of Wada, who was probably placing an arrow

into the groove of his bow even then. He dodged again, a tree

this time, and then the chain caught on something, and he fell

forward, his face slamming into a tree root.

After that, he had no more chances. They took him back to

the clearing and lashed the chain around a large cedar. A cut he

had suffered in the fall was bleeding into his right eye, and his