Текст книги "Island of Exiles "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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left eye was swelling shut because the constable he had kicked

had returned the favor. But he glimpsed—and wished he had

not—the neat pile of sticks and cudgels and the constables arm-

ing themselves before they formed a circle around him. They

were going to have their fun.

His chain was loose enough to allow him some minimal

dodging. Wada stood off to the side, his face avid with antici-

pation.

“So,” he said, stroking his skimpy mustache with a finger.

“Let’s get started. Where is the body of the man you killed?”

Akitada saw no need to reply. He kept his eyes on the con-

stables.

“Very well,” said Wada, and the first man stepped forward

and swung.

Akitada dodged, and the end of the stick merely brushed his

hip. Not too bad, he thought.

Wada shook his head. “Go on. All of you. At this rate we’ll be

here till midnight.”

What followed was systematic and practiced. As one man

stepped forward and swung, Akitada dodged and was met by

the full force of the cudgel of the man at the other end. The

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233

blows landed everywhere on his body, but for some reason they

avoided his head, which he could not in any case have protected.

The pain of each blow registered belatedly. The full sensation

was blocked by his concentration on dodging the next one, but

this did not last long. He had never been so totally at the mercy

of an enemy. The experience was simultaneously humbling and

infuriating. It became vital not to disgrace himself. In an effort

to distance himself from his pain, he thought of playing his

flute. Concentrating on a passage which always gave him

trouble, he played it in his mind, allowing his body to move by

instinct.

Time passed. Perhaps not much, perhaps a long time. Even-

tually one of the sticks broke, and once Akitada stumbled and

fell to his knees. He ducked in time, or the swinging cudgel

might have hit his head. Somehow he got back on his feet, and

once he even landed a kick to the groin of one of the men who

had strayed a bit too close. But he was quickly wearing out, and

his mental flute-playing disintegrated in hot flashes of agony.

Parts of him had gone numb. One arm was on fire with pain

that ran all the way from his shoulder to his hand. Then one of

the cudgels connected with his right knee, and he forgot the

other pains and his pride. He screamed and fell.

Mercifully they stopped then—though there was no mercy

about it, really. Wada walked over and kicked him in the ribs.

“Get up!”

“I can’t,” muttered Akitada through clenched teeth.

They jerked him upright. He screamed again as he put

weight on his injured knee and both knees buckled.

“Silence!”

Wada was listening toward the road. At a sign from him, his

men dropped Akitada. This time they left him lying there as

they walked away. Through waves of torment he heard someone

leaving on a horse but did not care.

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The grass under Akitada’s face became sticky with the blood

from his cut and clung to his skin, but his mind was on his knee.

Compared with that even the multiple bruises on the rest of his

body, which had combined to form a solid robe of pain, paled.

He wondered if his knee was broken and tried to move his leg.

The effort was inconclusive. All feeling seemed to have left it.

He turned the ankle, and was successful this time, but feeling

returned with a vengeance, running all the way from the knee

down to his foot. He held his breath, waiting for the spasm

to pass.

As the agony in the knee ebbed away slowly, he checked

the damage to the rest of his body. His fingers moved, though

the skin on his wrists felt raw. Never mind! That was noth-

ing. His shoulders? Painful, but mobile. Ribs and back? He

attempted a stretch and managed it without suffering the

kinds of spasm a broken rib produces. The knee remained the

problem. He could not stand or walk, and that made eventual

flight impossible.

Having got that far, he considered Wada and his thugs. Were

they planning to kill him? Since they had brutalized him in this

manner, they would not let him live if they feared him. He

was glad now that he had not told Wada his name. As long as

the man believed he was an escaped convict, he had a chance.

He heard the horseman returning and twisted his head to look.

Wada dismounted. He was giving orders, speaking to the

constables separately until each man nodded. Akitada tried to

guess where he had been and what these orders were by reading

expressions and gestures. The faces were mostly glum. Wada

looked determined, but his men were not happy with whatever

they were to do. Akitada took courage from this.

After a while, four of the constables left on foot, leading the

mule. Wada was busy talking to the two men who were left.

Their faces got longer and longer, and they cast angry looks in

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

235

Akitada’s direction. Finally they walked off also, and Wada came

toward him alone.

The short police officer paused beside him and looked

down with an unreadable expression. Panic seized Akitada. He

croaked, “Let me go. I won’t report you. If anybody asks, you

can claim you had provocation because I tried to escape.”

Wada chuckled. It was a very unpleasant sound. “No,” he

said. “You are to disappear. Mind you, if it had been my choice,

you’d have disappeared permanently here today, but . . .” He

used his foot to roll Akitada on his back. “Sit up!”

Akitada struggled into a sitting position, and his knee

promptly went into another spasm. He doubled over with the

pain and gasped.

Wada bent down and roughly straightened the injured leg.

When Akitada turned a scream into a groan, Wada laughed.

“You pampered nobles are all alike, Sugawara,” he said, probing

the knee with pleasure in the torment he caused his prisoner.

“You turn into whimpering babes at the first little pain. This is

nothing but a bruise, but I’m in a hurry, so you can ride.”

Pain and humiliation registered first. Akitada clenched his

jaws to keep from groaning as Wada poked, turned, and twisted.

He would not give the bastard the satisfaction of mocking

him again.

But then, sweat-drenched and dazed, he opened his eyes

wide and stared up at Wada. “What . . . did you call me?”

Wada rose and looked down at his prisoner with smug tri-

umph. “Sugawara? Yes, I know you’re not the Yoshimine Taket-

suna you pretended to be when you got off the ship. Oh, no.

You’re Sugawara Akitada, an official from Echigo, come to

catch us fools at our misdeeds. Look who’s the fool now!” He

bent until his face was close to Akitada’s. “This is Sadoshima,

my lord, not the capital. You made a bad mistake when you

became a convict and put yourself into our hands.”

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So. The charade was over.

“Since you know who I am and why I am here,” Akitada

snapped coldly, “you also know that continuing this will cost

you your life.”

Wada threw back his head and laughed. “You still don’t

get it,” he cried, pointing an exulting finger at Akitada. “It’s

not my life, but yours that’s lost. Quick or slow, you’ll die. Have no doubt about that. We’ll take you to a place you won’t leave

alive and where it won’t matter how loudly you proclaim your

name, your rank, and your former position, for nobody will

come to your rescue.” Still laughing and shaking his head,

he walked away.

Surprisingly, Akitada’s only reaction was relief that he no

longer needed to pretend. While he had not precisely disliked

the convict Taketsuna, Taketsuna had been a man who had

humbled himself with a cheerfulness which had cost Akitada

such effort that he had become both foolish and careless about

other matters. No wonder a creature like Wada sneered.

He considered his next step. Of course, there was no longer

any doubt that Wada was part of the conspiracy. Akitada had

not missed Wada’s use of the word “we” when he had talked

about his prisoner’s future. Whoever had arrived and given

Wada his orders had, for some reason, decided that a slow death

was preferable to a quick demise. That was interesting in itself,

but more immediately it meant he had gained precious time.

Had Wada continued the beating, he could not have saved him-

self. Now, however unpleasant the immediate future, he might

get another chance to escape.

Apparently he would be moved soon, and far enough to

make riding necessary. He looked at his swollen knee. The pain

was fading a little. Wada’s manipulation had not necessarily

reassured him that nothing was broken, though. He must try to

move it as little as possible. At the moment, when even the

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237

smallest jolt caused shooting pains all the way up his thigh and

down his leg, he was not tempted. He wriggled his wrists again.

Was the chain looser than before?

They were coming back, Wada and two constables, each

leading a saddled horse. Wada got in his saddle and watched

as the two men untied Akitada’s chain from the tree and then

led a horse over. Three horses and four men? Was one of the

constables expected to run alongside?

On the whole, while they looked sullen, their treatment of

him on this occasion showed a marked improvement. They

lifted him into the saddle, a process which was only moderately

painful because they allowed him to clutch his knee until

he could prop his foot into the stirrup. Their consideration

made him wonder what he was being saved for. Once he was in

the saddle, they briefly freed his wrists to rechain them in front

so he could hold the reins.

To all of this Akitada submitted passively and without com-

ment. He felt as weak as a newborn. All his strength was focused

on protecting the injured knee. He realized that, even supported

by the stirrup, his leg would respond to every step of the horse,

and that the journey, possibly a long one, might make him

reconsider the option of a quick death.

But before they could start, there was another shout from

the road. Wada stiffened. “Keep an eye on him,” he snapped, and

cantered off.

Two thoughts occurred to Akitada: Someone, foe or friend,

was on the road. And the two constables were not as watchful as

they should be, because they took the opportunity of Wada’s

absence to get into a bitter argument about who was riding the

third horse. He would not get another chance like this.

Kicking the horse as hard as he could with his good leg,

he took off after Wada. His knee spasmed, behind him the con-

stables shouted, before him branches whipped at his face, but

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he burst into the open at a full gallop. Wada was on the road,

talking to another rider. He turned, his mouth sagging open

in surprise. Then he flung about his horse to intercept him.

But Akitada’s eyes had already moved to the other man.

Kumo. He made a desperate attempt to wheel away, but his

injured leg refused to cooperate. The horse, confused by mixed

signals, stopped and danced, and Wada kept coming. In an in-

stant they faced each other. Wada, his sword raised, looked

murderous. At the last moment, Akitada raised his chained

hands to catch the descending blade in the loop of chain be-

tween them. The force of the strike jerked him forward and

sideways. Miraculously, he caught the reins and clung on as his

horse reared and shot forward. Then another horse closed in,

they collided, and both animals reared wildly.

This time, he was flung off backward, and landed hard. For

a single breath, he looked up at the blue sky, tried to hold back

the darkness that blotted out the day, tried to deny the pain, the

fear of dying, and then he fell into oblivion.

C H A P T E R F O U R T E E N

TO R A

Almost a month after the arrival of Yoshimine Taketsuna on

Sado Island, another ship from Echigo brought a young man in

military garb. Under the watchful eyes of several people, the

new arrival made his way from the ship to a small wine shop

overlooking Mano Harbor. He was a handsome fellow with

white teeth under a trim mustache, and he wore his shiny new

half armor and sword with a slight swagger. A scruffy individual

in loincloth and tattered shirt limped behind him with his

bundle of belongings.

The rank insignia on the visitor’s breastplate marked him as

a lieutenant of the provincial guard. Both the iron helmet with

its small knobs and the leather-covered breastplate shone with

careful waxing. Full white cotton trousers tucked into black

boots and a loose black jacket covered his broad shoulders.

He took a seat on one of the benches outside the shop and

removed his helmet, mopping it and his sweaty brow with a

bright green cloth square he carried in his sleeve. Then he

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pounded his fist on the rough table. His bearer limped over and

squatted down on the ground beside him.

“Hey,” growled the officer, “you can’t sit here. Go over there

where I don’t have to smell you.”

Obediently the man got up and moved.

“Miserable wretches don’t know what respect is,” grumbled

the new arrival, and eyed the bearer’s bony frame with a frown.

Surely the man was over forty, he thought, too old for hard phys-

ical labor. Besides, he was crippled. One of his legs was shorter

than the other. Worse, the fellow looked starved, with every rib

and bone trying to work its way through the leathery skin.

He turned impatiently and pounded the table again. A

fat, dirty man in a short gown and stained apron appeared in

the doorway and glared into the sun. Seeing the helmet and

sword, he rushed forward to bow and offer greetings to the

honorable officer.

“Never mind all that,” said his guest. “Bring me some wine

and give that bearer over there something to eat and some water

to drink. If I don’t feed him, he’ll collapse with my bundle.”

The officer was Tora, normally in charge of the constables at

the provincial headquarters of Echigo, but now on a mission to

find his master.

Glancing about him, he rubbed absentmindedly at the red

line the heavy helmet had left on his forehead. Made of thick

iron and lined with leather, even half armor was heavy and

uncomfortable, but his was new and he was still inordinately

proud of it.

The owner of the wine shop returned with the order. He set

a flask and cup down on the table and turned to take a chipped

bowl filled with some reeking substance to the bearer, when

Tora clamped an iron fist around his arm.

“What is that stinking slop?” he demanded.

“Er, fish soup, sir.”

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

241

Tora sniffed. “It stinks,” he announced, and jerked the

man’s arm, spilling the soup in a wide arc into the street. Imme-

diately seagulls swooped down with raucous cries to fight over

the scattered morsels. He growled, “Get fresh food or I’ll put my

fist into that loose mouth of yours.”

“Yes, sir, right away, sir,” gasped the man, rubbing his wrist

and backing away. From a safe distance, he pleaded, “But he’s only

a beggar. Lucky to get anything. I wouldn’t have charged much.”

“What?” roared Tora, rising to his feet. The man fled, and

quickly reappeared with a fresh bowl, which he presented to

Tora, who first smelled and then tasted it. Satisfied, he nodded.

The squatting servant received the food with many bows

and toothless grins toward his benefactor before raising it to his

mouth and emptying it in one long swallow.

“Give him another,” instructed Tora. “He likes it.”

Having seen to the feeding of his bearer, Tora poured

himself some wine and leaned back to look around.

He had spent the crossing planning his approach carefully.

Tora was not much given to planning, but life with his master

had taught him to respect danger. In the present situation, he

knew he must restrain his anxiety and move cautiously to

gather information without precipitating unfortunate develop-

ments. His master had used a disguise. Perhaps it had failed.

Tora felt that nothing was to be gained by doing the same.

Something had clearly gone wrong, or he would have returned

or sent a message by now. As it was, they had waited well beyond

the time of his master’s expected return.

Though it was a beautiful late summer afternoon, with the

sun glistening on the bay, seagulls wheeling against a blue sky,

and colorful flags flying over the gate of a nearby palisade, Tora

frowned. There was nothing cheerful about the people here.

Half-naked bearers were unloading bales and boxes from

the ship. They were younger, stronger, and better fed than the

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pathetic creature guarding Tora’s bundle, but their expressions

were uniformly sullen or dejected. There was no talk. Neither

jokes nor curses passed their lips as they crept, bent double

under their loads, along the beach toward piles of goods stock-

piling under the eyes of bored guards.

Tora considered the cripple. Their host had referred to him

as a beggar, but the ragged creature had offered his services as

a bearer. On second thought, the man could not have handled

anything much heavier than Tora’s bundle, which contained

little more than a change of clothes.

The man bowed and grinned. At least four of his front teeth

were gone, he had a flattened nose, and one ear was misshapen.

Either he was incredibly foolhardy about getting into fights, or

he had been beaten repeatedly. Tora thought the latter and

beckoned the man over.

He rushed up with that lopsided limp of his and carefully

positioned himself downwind. “Yes, your honor?”

“What’s your name?”

“Taimai.”

“Taimai? Turtle?”

The man nodded. “It’s lucky.”

“Hmm.” Tora glanced at the skinny, twisted figure and

disagreed. “Well, Turtle, would you know of a good cheap

inn?”

“Yes, yes,” Turtle crowed, jumping up and down in his ea-

gerness. “Just around the corner. Very cheap and excellent

accommodations.”

Tora rose, dropping some coppers on the table. The host

rushed out and scooped them up eagerly. He bowed several

times. “Come again, your honor. Come again.”

Paid the rascal too much, Tora thought as he put on his

helmet and followed the limping Turtle into town.

“Just a moment!” said a high, sharp voice behind him.

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

243

Tora turned and recognized the red-coated police officer,

also a lieutenant. He had come on board ship to check every-

body’s papers before they disembarked. Under normal circum-

stances, Tora would have struck up a conversation and proposed

a friendly cup of wine, but there was something about the man

that he did not like. He had passed his papers over silently, and

the lieutenant had studied them silently, giving Tora a long

measuring look from small mean eyes before returning them

without comment.

Tora now narrowed his eyes and looked the other man

over, from his meager mustache to his leather boots, and

said, “Yes?”

“Where are you going with that piece of shit? I thought you

had a dispatch for the governor.”

Tora turned to glance at Turtle, who had shifted his small

twisted body behind Tora’s bulk and looked terrified. “Is there a

local law against hiring someone to carry your baggage?”

“There’s a law against associating with felons. You!” the

policeman snapped, advancing on Turtle. “Out of here! Now!”

Turtle dropped Tora’s bundle and scurried off.

“Stop!” roared Tora, and Turtle came to a wobbly halt.

He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes wide with fear. “Stay

there.” Tora turned back to the policeman. “What is your name,

Lieutenant?” he asked in a dangerously soft voice.

There was a pause while they stared at each other. Then the

policeman said, “Wada,” and added, “I’ll get you another bearer.

Hey, you! Over here! A job for you.”

A big fellow with bulging muscles and the brutish expres-

sion of an animal trotted over.

“No,” said Tora. “I like the one I picked. Now, if you don’t

mind, I have business to take care of. I wouldn’t want to explain

to your governor that I was detained by the local police.” He

turned his back on Wada, picked up the bundle, and took it over

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to the cripple. With a nervous glance at the policeman, Turtle

accepted his burden again, and they continued on their way.

Wada’s shrill voice sounded after them, “I’m warning you,

bastard. The ship leaves in the morning. Make sure you’re on it.”

Tora froze.

“Don’t, please! He’s a bad man,” whispered Turtle on his heels.

Tora threw up an arm in acknowledgment of Wada’s words

and started walking again. “He says you’re a felon,” he told Turtle.

“Huh?”

“A felon’s someone who’s committed a crime and been con-

victed,” Tora explained.

“Then he told a lie,” Turtle cried in a tone of outrage. “Him

and his constables are always picking on me. I’m innocent as a

newborn child. More so.”

“Very funny.”

It became obvious that the inn was not close by. They

passed through most of Mano to a run-down area on the out-

skirts. The term “inn” could hardly be applied to the place. It

was the worst sort of hostel Tora had ever seen, a small, dirty

tenement which appeared to cater to the occasional whore and

her customers.

Turtle bustled ahead and brought out a slatternly woman

who was nursing a child and dragging along several toddlers

clinging to her ragged skirt. Other children in various degrees of

undress and filth peered out at them. This landlady, or brothel

keeper if you wanted to split hairs, was grinning widely at the

sight of a well-to-do customer. A missing tooth and a certain

scrawniness suggested a family connection with Turtle. Sure

enough, he introduced her as his sister. Tora glanced around,

wrinkled his nose at the aroma of sweat and rancid food,

sighed, and asked for a room and a bath.

The bath was to be had down the street in a very fine public

establishment, Turtle offered cheerfully. Was ten coppers too

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

245

much for the room? Tora looked at the skinny children and

their mother’s avid eyes and passed over a handful of coppers

with a request for a hot meal in the evening. The woman bowed

so deeply that the child at her breast let out a shrill cry.

Tora followed Turtle down a narrow, odorous hallway to a

small dark room. It was hot and airless. Tora immediately threw

open the shutters and looked out at a side yard where several

rats scurried from a pile of garbage and a few rags dried on a

broken bamboo fence.

Turtle had placed Tora’s bundle in a corner and was drag-

ging in an armful of grimy bedding.

“Never mind that,” Tora said quickly. “I always sleep on the

bare floor.”

Turtle looked stricken. “It’s very soft and nice,” he urged

anxiously. “And the nights get cold here. Besides, it’s only a

dirt floor.”

Hard use and filth had smoothed and polished the ground

until it could be taken for dark wood in the half-light. Tora had

slept on the bare earth before, but usually in the open and in

cleaner places than this. He weakened. “Well . . . just one quilt,

then.” He knew he would regret it, but the poor wretch looked

relieved. Turning his back on the accommodations, he looked

out over the neighboring tenements toward the curved roofs of

the provincial headquarters on the hillside. Its flags fluttered in the breeze, and he was suddenly impatient.

He was halfway out the hostel’s door when he heard Turtle

shouting after him, “Wait, master. I’ll come with you or you’ll

get lost. I know everything about Mano and can be very useful.”

Before Tora could refuse, a small boy rushed in from the

street and collided with him. Vegetables, salted fish, a small bag

of rice, and a few copper coins in change spilled from his basket.

His uncle fell to scolding him, and Tora realized that his money

had bought a feast for a starving family.

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“Very well, Turtle,” he said, when the nephew had disap-

peared into the kitchen, “you can be my servant while I’m here.

I’ll pay you two coppers a day plus your food.”

Turtle whooped, then fell to his knees and beat his head on

the floor in gratitude. Tora turned away, embarrassed. “Hurry

up,” he growled. “We’re going to see the governor.”

“Yes, master. We’re going to see the governor.” Turtle was up

and hopping away, chanting happily, “We’re going to see the

governor.”

Tora caught up. “Stop that,” he snapped. “I want to ask you

something.” Turtle was all attention. “Tell me about that police

officer. What happened?”

The crippled man touched his nose and misshapen ear.

“Wada is a bad man,” he said again, shaking his head. “Very bad.

Watch out. He doesn’t like you.” He glanced around to make

sure they were alone and added in a whisper, “He kills people.

Me, I just get beaten.”

Tora frowned. “Why do you get beaten? Didn’t you tell me

that you’re as innocent as a babe?”

Turtle shrugged. “I get in his way.”

“That’s no reason. You must’ve done something. He called

you a fel . . . er, criminal.”

Turtle drew himself up. “I’m an honest man,” he said. “Be-

sides, I’m not the only one that gets beaten up for nothing by

the constables. Wada likes to watch. Just ask around.”

“Why don’t you complain? Ring the bell at the tribunal and

lay a charge against him?”

“Hah,” said Turtle. “There’s a bell, all right, but nobody rings

it. Especially not now. The governor has his own troubles.”

Tora had been momentarily distracted from Turtle’s chatter

by a very pretty shop girl. He winked at her and was pleased when

she blushed and smiled. “Troubles?” he asked absently, craning

his neck for another glimpse of her trim waist and sparkling eyes.

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

247

“The governor’s son poisoned the prince. Hadn’t you heard?

It was a bad affair. He was about to go before the judge, but he

ran away from the prison here. People say the governor helped

him and that he’ll be recalled. So he’s hardly going to listen to

complaints from someone like me.”

Turtle had Tora’s full attention now. “The son escaped?

When did that happen?”

Turtle frowned. “Seven—no, eight days ago. They couldn’t

find him in Mano or the other towns and villages, so they’re

searching the mountains now. I bet he’s long gone on one of the

pirate boats.”

It made sense. Everybody knew about the pirates who plied

their trade between the mainland and Sadoshima. If the Sa-

doshima governor’s son had fled the island, he had headed either

to Echigo or Awa Province. More likely the latter because of the

unrest there. During troubled times, a man could disappear with-

out a trace. The question was, did the escape have anything to do

with the master’s disappearance. Well, he was about to find out.

When they reached the gate of the provincial headquarters,

Tora told his companion that he would probably have to

wait outside, then identified himself and his errand to a guard

engaged in lively repartee with several young women. The

guard waved Tora through with barely a glance.

Shocking discipline, thought Tora. Not even a request for

papers. In fact, the guard had only bothered to bar the way to

the ragged Turtle.

Inside the compound, Tora saw more signs of slovenly stan-

dards. Off-duty guards were shooting dice with clerks, and trash

blew across the graveled courtyards. He made his way to the gov-

ernor’s residence without being stopped. Nobody seemed to care

who he was or where he was going.

Inside the residence, he found neither guards nor servants,

nor the customary clerks and secretaries. Eventually he almost

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stumbled over a dozing servant and asked directions. The

man yawned and pointed toward a door before turning over to

resume his nap.

Expecting the door to lead to another hallway, Tora opened

it and stepped through. To his dismay he had walked into a

study occupied by two elderly gentlemen. One of them was

clearly the governor.

Tora bowed deeply. “This insignificant person humbly

apologizes. There was no guard outside the door.”

The two gentlemen did not seem surprised. The governor

behind the desk was a thin, pale man in official black silk robe

and hat, while a chubby individual in brown sat toward the side.

Both looked drawn and dejected.

“Come in, whoever you are,” said the governor. His voice

was so listless that Tora had trouble hearing him. “Close the

door behind you if you have anything to say that you would

rather not have overheard.”

Tora closed the door.

“I’m Mutobe and this is Superintendent Yamada. Why are

you here?”

Yamada’s brown silk gown was stained and wrinkled, he was

hatless, and his gray hair was carelessly tied. He also looked as

though he had been weeping.

Tora saluted. “Lieutenant Tora from the provincial guard of

Echigo. I carry a dispatch from my master to you, Excellency.”

“What?” The governor shot up and stretched out his hand

eagerly. “Hand it over! Thank heaven he’s all right. What can

have happened?”

The dispatch, as Tora knew very well, was from Seimei. They

had all put their heads together to concoct a document that

would look authentic without revealing the true purpose

of Tora’s journey. Seimei had written it out in official style and

affixed both the provincial seal and the Sugawara stamp.

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

249

The governor unrolled the paper, ran his eyes over it, and

sank back down. Looking up at Tora, he said, “Lord Sugawara

did not write or dictate this, I think.”

Tora glanced at Yamada and cleared his throat. “I am to report

back on a prisoner called Yoshimine Taketsuna. He left Echigo for

Sadoshima a month ago. We expected to receive confirmation of

his safe arrival. Instead there has been no news at all.”

Superintendent Yamada cried, “Ah, Taketsuna. Poor fellow.

Yes, he got here, all right. In fact, he was staying with me and my daughter for a while. We became very fond of him even in the

short time he was with us. What a pity! What a pity!”

Tora turned cold. If his master was dead, what would he do?

What could he tell the master’s lady, left all alone in a cold

northern land with a baby son? His fear and grief cut through

the thin veneer of protocol he had acquired reluctantly. He

took a few strides across the room until he towered over the two

elderly men. “What happened?” he demanded harshly. “Why

was no one informed?”

Tora’s rude and disrespectful tone made Mutobe flinch, but

his companion gave Tora a kindly look. “Ah, I don’t blame you

for being upset, my good fellow. You must have been fond of

him, too.” Tora did not like that “must have been.” He glared at

Yamada, who continued, “I don’t quite understand the ins and