Текст книги "Island of Exiles "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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“What? Oh. Oh, yes.” Yamada focused his eyes on the sheaf

of questions in his hand. “Very well. Write: Interview between

the prisoner Mutobe Toshito and Yamada Tsubura, superin-

tendent of Sado Provincial Prison. The fourteenth day of the

eighth month of the third year of Chogen.”

Akitada wrote.

“Now write down all the questions I ask and the an-

swers the prisoner gives.” Yamada consulted his papers and ad-

dressed the young man. “Mutobe Toshito, how did you come to

attend the banquet during which the Second Prince died?”

The prisoner made a face. “I have already answered that sev-

eral times. My fa . . . the governor often received invitations to I s l a n d o f E x i l e s

69

dinners given for the Second Prince. Because of Prince Okisada’s

illustrious rank, it was his habit to accept these, but on this

occasion the governor was not well and did not wish to make

the journey. So I went instead and carried his apologies.”

Yamada frowned. “Ah, yes. You are right. These questions

seem to have been asked before,” he muttered, scanning the list

in his hands. “Feel free to add any information you may not have

given earlier. Perhaps it will reveal something to your benefit.”

Akitada knew very well why there were no new questions.

They were meant to give him access to the evidence from young

Mutobe’s own recollections.

“Now, about that prawn stew you brought for the prince.

Why did you bring food to the dinner?”

A good question that had puzzled Akitada.

The prisoner compressed his lips. “I know that is against

me. It was customary to bring the prince a small gift. I never

liked this custom and used to argue against it, but my fa . . . the governor insisted that it would offend certain people in the capital if we did not show such courtesy. When it was a matter of

my going by myself, I decided to take something simple. I knew

that the prince was particularly fond of the prawn stew a

woman in Minato made, so I decided to take him this instead.”

Ah! A second unplanned event.

“This woman, did she know the stew was for the prince?”

“I mentioned my purpose when I picked it up, I think. She

lives not far from Professor Sakamoto’s villa and knows about

the prince’s tastes.”

“Could she have poisoned the stew intentionally?”

Young Mutobe shook his head. “No. She’s just a simple fish-

erman’s wife who runs a small restaurant. She would never do

such a thing.”

That was naïve, but then the governor’s son seemed rather

naïve in other ways, too.

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“Could the stew have become poisoned by accident?”

“I don’t know. I expect the police have investigated.”

The superintendent nodded. “They have. Apparently the

woman served the same stew to her customers without ill

effects. It seems you are the only one who could have added

something to the dish after it left her premises.”

Toshito said sharply, “What about Professor Sakamoto, his

servants, or his other guests?”

Akitada shot a glance at the prisoner. So the young man was

not completely resigned to his fate.

Yamada sighed. “The guests and servants testified that you

arrived late and presented the dish to His Highness, who placed

it on the tray before him. The servants had already served the

prince and neither of his neighbors was close enough to add

anything to the stew without being seen. I’m afraid the burden

of the charge does fall on you . . . unless you can account for

some other instance in which someone might have tampered

with the food?”

The superintendent was trying to help, but the prisoner

shook his head. “I’ve had weeks to think about it, and I cannot

understand what happened. Perhaps the stew was fine and the

poison was in something else.”

Yamada shook his head. “You forget the dog died.”

“Perhaps the dog died from some other cause.”

Yamada moved restlessly. “Too much of a coincidence. And

such speculations are remote indeed when motive is consid-

ered. Who in that house that night would have had a reason to

kill Prince Okisada?”

“I don’t know,” cried young Mutobe, his voice rising in frus-

tration. “How could I know? That is for the authorities to dis-

cover. Why ask me what I cannot speak to?”

The superintendent cleared his throat. “I am sorry. You’re

quite right. Let us return to the questions. You are accused of

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71

attempting to strangle His Highness the moment the other

guests left the pavilion. You have testified that you were merely

loosening the prince’s collar as he had asked you to do. Why

then did he scream for help?”

Toshito raised his hands helplessly. “I cannot say, except that

he was in distress. He seemed to be gasping for breath.”

“A man who is choking cannot call out,” Yamada pointed

out. “And according to the physician, the poison caused pains in

the belly and later convulsions.”

The prisoner shook his head. “All I know is that it happened.

I have no explanation.”

With a sigh, the superintendent folded his papers and put

them back in his sleeve. “Is there anything you can say in your

defense?” he asked. “For example, do you know of anyone at all

who might have wanted to kill the prince?”

Toshito cried, “I did not want to kill him, but they arrested

me. He was not a likable man, but why would anyone kill him

for that?”

There. It was out. The motive was not his, but his father’s.

The charge would be that Governor Mutobe had prevailed

upon his son to poison Okisada because the prince had become

a threat to Mutobe’s career.

Yamada rose abruptly. “That is all. We’ll leave you in peace

now.” He looked distressed at his choice of words and muttered

something.

Akitada cleared his throat. “Your pardon, sir,” he said, “but

being new at this kind of thing, I’m concerned about accuracy

because my notes might be used in court. Could I clear up a

small matter to make sure I wrote it correctly?”

“What is it?”

“Whose idea was the prawn stew? It seemed to me the ac-

cused said the prince had asked for it, and that was why he

thought to bring it.”

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The superintendent turned to the prisoner. “Well, was it

your idea or the prince’s request?”

The young man looked confused. “I cannot recall. Surely it

was mine. I believe the prince had talked about his fondness of

stewed prawns on a previous occasion, but I was the one who

decided that day to stop at the restaurant. The owner’s prawn

stew is well known in the area.”

Yamada pressed him, “Perhaps your father suggested it? I

assume he was the one who told you of the prince’s taste for

prawns?”

The prisoner sprang to his feet. “He may have heard him

talk about it,” he cried, his eyes flashing. “The prince was always talking about food. But no, he never made such a suggestion. It

would never have occurred to him to take such a humble gift.

He had nothing to do with the stew. The stew was my idea, no

one else’s, do you hear?”

With a sigh, Yamada nodded. Akitada, whose eyes had hung

on the prisoner during his outburst, hurriedly wrote down

the final questions and responses, then bundled up his notes.

Bowing to the prisoner, he followed the superintendent out of

the jail.

Yamada looked dejected. “Poor young man,” he said. “It will

go hard with him. And with the governor, too. He loves the boy

dearly.” He heaved a deep sigh and added with a breaking voice,

“Life is full of suffering, but nothing compares to a father’s pain when he causes misery for his child.” He stretched out his hand

for the notes of the interview and said in a more normal tone,

“Thank you, young man. Better report to Yutaka now.” Then he

turned and walked away.

◆

Akitada spent the rest of the day in the archives, wielding his

brush and thinking over what Yamada had said. Apparently he

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

73

believed the governor had used his son to carry out the murder

of the prince. That was shocking enough, but Akitada could not

rid himself of the conviction that Yamada had also spoken of

himself. If so, he must have been thinking about the drudgery,

which the lovely Masako accepted so readily, but which seemed

shockingly cruel to Akitada. What would make a father demand

such a sacrifice from his daughter?

He decided to ask Yutaka.

Taking one of the documents as a pretext, he left his cubicle

and sought out the superintendent of archives.

Yutaka was at his desk, bent over some papers, with his thin

back to the entrance. Apparently the shortage of scribes kept

him as busy as his clerks.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Akitada said, raising his voice a lit-

tle, “but I have a question about this.”

There was no answer, and Akitada saw that the brush had

fallen from Yutaka’s hand. With a sudden sense of foreboding, he

stepped quickly around Yutaka. The elderly man’s chin had sunk

into his chest and his eyes were closed. The brush had left a jagged line on the paper, and his lifeless hand hung limp. Fearing that the man was dead, Akitada put his hand on his head to raise it.

“Wh . . . what?” Yutaka, coming awake, jerked away, stared

up at Akitada, and shrieked for help.

“Sir! Sir!” cried Akitada, dismayed. “Please calm down. I did

not realize you were asleep. I thought . . .” He did not get any

further, because at that moment the other two clerks burst in

and flung themselves upon him so violently that he crashed to

the floor. Though he offered no resistance, they belabored him

with whatever they could lay their hands on, a water container

filled with inky liquid, Yutaka’s wooden armrest, and a docu-

ment rolled around a wooden dowel.

Akitada suffered a number of crushing blows to his skull,

particularly from the armrest and the document scroll, before

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I . J . P a r k e r

Yutaka, perhaps out of concern for his precious scroll, put a

stop to the beating.

It took a while to clear up the misunderstanding, because

Akitada was too dizzy and nauseated to be able to say much. But

eventually Yutaka grudgingly apologized, taking his embarrass-

ment out in a tongue-lashing of the two clerks, who slunk away

silently. Akitada staggered to his feet, wiping dazedly at some

blood which was running down his cheek.

Seeing his condition, Yutaka sent him home.

Later Akitada had little recollection of how he had crossed

the yard and collapsed on the bare floor of his small room. He

passed out or fell asleep, and did not return to full conscious-

ness until a touch on his bruised head made him jerk away. This

movement caused such a jangling and ringing in his head that

he sucked in his breath and closed his eyes again.

But not before he had caught a glimpse of Masako’s face, bent

over him with an intense look of concern on her pretty features.

“What happened to you, Taketsuna?” she asked, her voice

trembling and cool fingertips touching his cheek. The gentle

caress almost brought tears to his eyes, and he snatched at her

hand. After a moment, she pulled it from his grasp. “Can you

speak?” she asked.

“I . . . yes. It was all a misunderstanding. Yutaka was asleep

at his desk and thought I meant him harm. He called for help

and his clerks gave me a beating.”

“Oh.” She looked at him from her large, soft eyes, a spot of

color in her cheeks. “We should have warned you. You see, he

really was attacked last year. One of the prisoners went mad,

and Yutaka got cut pretty badly. But that he should have set the

clerks on you is outrageous. We must report it to the governor.

And you need a doctor.” She rose with a rustle of silk.

“No!” Akitada snatched at her hem and begged, “Please

don’t mention this to Dr. Ogata or the governor. It was nothing,

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

75

and Yutaka apologized. Please! I don’t want to lose my job in the

archives.”

She stood, frowning in indecision. Then she nodded. “Very

well. I’ll get some water and salve and see what I can do.”

When the door had closed behind her, Akitada stared at it in

confusion. Something had just happened between them, some-

thing that had made his heart beat faster and heated his blood.

When she had touched him, he had felt a powerful attraction to

her, a desire that was more than physical. Only two women in

his life had moved him this way. He had lost the first one and

been wretched. The second he had taken for his wife. Perhaps

the beating had robbed him of his sanity. He loved Tamako. His

reaction to this girl seemed like a betrayal, and he was suddenly

afraid of being alone with her, of letting her touch him again.

Sitting up, he saw his own robe lying neatly folded on the trunk

in which his bedding was kept. He tried to rise, but a blinding

pain shot through his skull.

He tensed at the sound of returning steps in the corridor

and was ridiculously relieved when the door opened and he

saw that Masako was not alone. The white-robed nun he had

seen that morning in young Toshito’s cell followed her into

the room.

“This is the reverend Ribata,” Masako announced, setting

down a bowl of water next to Akitada. “I found her at the well

and brought her because she has great skill with wounds.”

Intensely aware of the girl, Akitada kept his eyes on the nun.

“Th-there was no need,” he stammered, staring into the strange

black eyes, which regarded him fixedly.

“We have met,” Ribata said, in that beautiful, cultured voice

of hers. “You are the new prisoner from the capital who has

made himself useful to the governor.”

She was well informed for an ordinary nun. But then this

was no ordinary nun. She came from a background as good as

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his own, perhaps better. What had brought her to this godfor-

saken outpost in the Northern Sea?

She came forward and crouched on the floor next to him to

examine his head. Her hands were so thin from age and depri-

vation that they looked more like the claws of some huge bird of

prey. But her touch was not ungentle, though certainly more

businesslike than Masako’s. The comparison was unfortunate,

because it made him glance at the younger woman’s anxious

face on his other side. She was leaning forward a little, and the

collar of her robe revealed a smooth white neck. The soft silk

hid the rest, but as she bent toward him, it was easy enough to

imagine her full breasts where the fabric strained against them.

The effort to control his desire brought a frown to his face.

“Oh, you are hurting him,” cried Masako, bending over him

more closely so that he could smell the scent of her hair and

skin and feel the warmth from her body. “Is it serious?”

Ribata sat back, her eyes resting thoughtfully first on

Akitada, then on her. “No,” she said. Reaching into her sleeve,

she pulled out a handful of bundled herbs. Selecting one, she

said, “He has a bad headache and feels slightly feverish. Take a

few of these leaves of purple violet and pour boiling water over

them. Let them steep as long as it takes to recite the preamble of

the lotus sutra, and then bring the infusion back.”

Masako left, and Akitada said, “Thank you. It is most kind of

you to trouble. I shall be well again shortly, I’m sure.”

She nodded and reached for a cloth, which was soaking in

the water bowl. Squeezing it out, she began to clean the dried

blood from his face and scalp. “They say you killed a political

enemy.”

“Yes.” He was glad the story was beginning to circulate. In

the abstract it was no lie. He had killed, and killed for the same

reasons as the real Taketsuna.

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

77

“What did you think of Toshito’s story?”

This was strange questioning, but he decided that a nun’s

life was of necessity dull. No doubt she took an avid interest in

the people she met. He said cautiously, “I liked him and felt

sorry for him.”

She paused in her ministrations. “You avoid an answer, so

you think his case is hopeless?” Her gaze was intent, as if she

willed him to deny it.

“I don’t know much about it,” he said evasively.

She nodded. “You will. You’re not a man to rest until you

have the truth.”

He stared at this strange remark, but she resumed her work,

firmly turning his head to the side to dab at a particularly sore

area. He gritted his teeth and winced at the sharp pain.

“The girl likes you.”

“What?”

“Masako likes you. I could see it in her face and hear it in her

voice. Don’t hurt her.”

“Of course not. I hardly know her.” He was glad his face was

averted, for he could feel the heat of his embarrassment along

with the beginnings of anger. “If you are so concerned about the

young lady,” he said, “why don’t you speak to her father? Mak-

ing his daughter labor like an outcast among rough criminals is

cruel and wrong.”

She clicked her tongue. “All human beings have the lotus of

Buddhahood within. It flourishes even in foul water.” She had

finished what she was doing, and he turned to glance up at her,

catching a speculative gleam in those deep-set eyes. A tiny smile

formed at the corner of her thin lips and disappeared instantly.

“There may be reasons,” she said, folding away the wet cloth and

putting the bowl of dirty water aside. “For example, they may be

very poor and need the extra money.”

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“Poor?” he scoffed. “Yamada is a man of rank and good

family. He has his salary and probably also family income.

How could he be poor enough to treat his only child this way?”

“Masako is not his only child. Yamada has a son in the

northern army. He is very proud of him. The boy has distin-

guished himself and has hopes of a fine military career.”

“Then he cares more about his son than his daughter,”

Akitada charged. “As if it were not enough that she is confined

to this island where suitable husbands must be singularly

lacking—” He stopped abruptly and flushed.

Ribata gave him a sharp glance, and he felt angrier than ever.

Closing his mouth firmly before his temper caused him to say

too much, he glared at the ceiling.

When she spoke, her voice was sad. “Sometimes events hap-

pen which force us to make cruel choices.”

Masako returned with a steaming bowl. He drank the pun-

gent, vile-tasting brew and was reminded of Seimei and home.

Ribata’s ministrations had turned the steady pain in his head to

vicious pounding.

They left him after a while, and he lay there, miserable in a

confusion of pain and puzzlement. After a while, he forced him-

self to check his robe. The stains were gone, but his papers still

stiffened the lining of the collar. With a sigh of relief, he crawled back and tried to think.

He had suffered humiliation, abuse, and repeated beatings

without having made the slightest progress. And now, as if this

were not enough, he had allowed himself to become distracted

by a girl who was of no concern to him and threatened to inter-

fere with his task and peace of mind.

C H A P T E R F I V E

T H E U N P O L I S H E D J EW E L

In the morning, Akitada had only a slight headache and a few

swellings and lacerations which his hair hid well enough. He

verified these matters by peering at himself in the courtyard

well. Unfortunately, his appearance was marred by the unkempt

state of his beard. Since he had no razor, he decided to ask

Yamada for the use of his.

Father and daughter were at breakfast as before. It was mil-

let gruel again, this time with a bit of radish thrown in. It was

poor food indeed for a family of Yamada’s status. Akitada cast

furtive glances at his hosts. Masako wore the same silk dress, not

new because the blue had faded in the folds, and Yamada’s dark

robe was mended at the sleeve and collar. Could they indeed be

abjectly poor? Perhaps the son in the northern army required

hefty sums. Many young men in the military gambled.

Yamada politely inquired about Akitada’s injuries and re-

peated the story of Yutaka being attacked by the prisoner.

Masako said nothing and, beyond a bow and a muttered thanks

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for her ministrations the day before, Akitada avoided speaking

to or looking at her. When they were done, he begged the loan

of the razor. An awkward silence met his request. Then Yamada

said, “Forgive me, but it is not permissible to provide prisoners

with such things.”

“Oh,” said Akitada. “Of course. In your house I tend to for-

get that I am a prisoner.” He touched his beard with a rueful

smile. “I do not like to appear in front of you so unkempt, but I

suppose I must.”

“But,” said Masako quickly, “I could trim it for you. I always

shave Father.”

“No,” cried Akitada, rising quickly, “I would not dream of

asking such a thing of a lady.”

“Well,” put in her father, “I suppose it is out of the ordi-

nary, but we can hardly expect to live by the old rules, any of

us. Masako is quite skilled with a razor. You may trust her

completely.”

“Of course I trust her,” said Akitada, reddening, “but it

is surely not seemly for her to trim my beard. A servant,

perhaps . . .”

“We have no servants,” Masako said practically. “But if it

embarrasses you, I would rather not.”

It was an impossible situation which ended, predictably,

after reassurances and apologies from Akitada, with him sitting

on the edge of the veranda, while she knelt beside him and

trimmed his beard. Yamada had withdrawn into his room,

where he was bent over some paperwork and out of earshot.

Masako’s closeness was as disturbing to Akitada as her

featherlight touch on his skin. He could not avoid looking at her

face, so close to his that he felt the warmth of her breath. She

had unusually long lashes, as silken and thick as her hair, and

her full lips quirked now and then with concentration. Once

they parted, and the tip of her pink tongue appeared between

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81

her teeth. White teeth. She did not blacken them as other

women of her class did. Neither did his wife, for that matter,

unless she had to appear in public. The memory of Tamako

shook him enough to avert his eyes from Masako’s pretty fea-

tures. But there was little escape, for they next fell on her wrist, slender and white where the sleeve of her gown had slipped

back, in contrast to the rough redness of her hands.

He remembered the first time he had met her, how she had

been barefoot, and how dirty her pretty feet had been. How

could such a beautiful and wellborn young girl lead the life of a

rough serving woman? Had her education been as neglected as

her manners? He felt a perverse desire to protect her.

In his confusion, he blurted out, “Why are you and your

father so poor?”

She dropped the razor in her lap and stared at him. “What

do you mean?”

Oh, dear. He could hardly refer to the millet gruel and their

mended clothes. But there were always her menial tasks. “You

know very well,” he said severely, “that a young lady of your class should not engage in the kind of work I have seen you perform.

That is for slaves or outcasts to do. Only utter penury could

have caused your father to care so little about his daughter’s

behavior.”

She reddened and her eyes flashed. “My behavior is not your

concern,” she hissed, waving the razor at him to make her point.

“If I wish to shave men, it is my business. And if I want to work

in the prison kitchen, it is also my business. Let me tell you that I find such a life more entertaining than spending all my days

and nights in some dark room reading poetry like the fine ladies

you are familiar with. I am fed up with people telling me how

improper I am and how no gentleman will want me for a wife.

There are only farmers, soldiers, and prisoners in Sadoshima.

The few officials are either too old or too settled to look for

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another wife. The best I can do is to marry some penniless

exile like you, and he would surely appreciate the fact that I

can cook a meal, clean the kitchen, and trim his beard when it

needs it.”

They stared at each other, dismayed at opening the flood-

gates of so much suppressed frustration. The deep color which

touched her translucent skin reminded Akitada of the blushing

of a rose.

“Forgive me,” he said, taking her hand.

“I didn’t mean that,” she cried at the same moment. They

both laughed a little in mutual embarrassment.

He took the razor from her hand and laid it aside. “You have

been very good to me, Masako, you and your father. I have

been wondering if you are in some sort of trouble. Perhaps I

can help.”

She did not point out to him that he was hardly in a position

to help anybody. Instead she shook her head and smiled tremu-

lously. “Thank you. You are very kind. It is a temporary situa-

tion and involves my father’s honor. I’m afraid I cannot tell you

more than that.”

“Something to do with the prison or the prisoners?” he per-

sisted, wondering if Yamada had become involved in some way

in Toshito’s predicament.

“No. Not the prison. Another duty. Please don’t ask any

more questions.” She took up the razor again and finished trim-

ming his beard, while he sat, puzzling over her remarks. What

other assignment did Yamada have? Whatever it was, it probably

involved money somehow, for the deprivation they suffered

must be due to the fact that he must make restitution. Had

Yamada mismanaged government funds?

She laid aside the razor and smiled at him. “There. You look

very handsome,” she said. “And you could easily have slashed

my throat and made your escape.”

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83

He smiled back. “Your throat is much too pretty for that,

and there is little chance of my getting off the island. That is

why exiles are sent here in the first place.”

“As to that, there have been escapes. At least, people have

disappeared mysteriously. They say fishermen from the main-

land used to do a lucrative business ferrying off exiles. Of

course, it takes a great deal of gold, but some of the noblemen

here have wealthy families back in the capital or in one of the

provinces.” She stopped and put a hand over her mouth. “Oh,

dear. I talk too much. Do you have a family?”

Akitada laughed out loud. “We are very poor.” It was the

truth. He could hardly have raised the money for the passage to

Sadoshima, let alone the sum involved in an escape attempt. But

the topic was an interesting one. “I assume Prince Okisada

could have availed himself of such a method if he had wished to

do so. Why did he remain?”

“Oh, the prince was too famous. He would have been caught

quickly. And they say he was too soft to be a hunted man.” She

regarded Akitada affectionately. “You, on the other hand, look

able to take on any danger. Where did you get the scar on your

shoulder?”

Akitada saw the admiration in her eyes and smiled. “A sword

cut. And it wasn’t proper of you to stare at a man washing

himself.”

She blushed. For a moment they sat looking at each other,

then she turned her face away. “I told you that my life is more

entertaining than that of proper young ladies,” she said lightly.

“I could not help noticing that the scar is recent, and there were

others. Are you a famous swordsman?”

“Not at all.” Her sudden warm regard made him uncom-

fortable, and he started to rise. “It is time to go to the archives.”

She snatched at his hand. “Not even a thank-you, when I

have made you look so handsome?”

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Akitada looked down into her laughing eyes. The invitation

in them was unmistakable and unnerving. There was a part of

him which disapproved of such forwardness. She was the most

improper young lady he had ever met. Yet his heart melted and

he felt his hand tremble in hers. She managed to make him feel

as awkward as a young boy. Detaching his hand gently, he

bowed. “I am deeply in your debt, Masako. Perhaps I could do

some of your chores for you after work tonight?”

She stood also, twisting the razor in her hands. There was

still color in her cheeks and her eyes sparkled as she returned

the bow. “Thank you. I would be honored, Taketsuna.”

One of the clerks was peering out of the door to the archives

but disappeared instantly when he saw Akitada. No one was in

the dim hall. Akitada looked about nervously, wondering what

to expect after yesterday’s attack. Suddenly Yutaka appeared.

He was all smiles. The two clerks followed him, looking glum.

Yutaka gestured and they knelt, bowing deeply.

For a moment, Akitada feared his identity was known, but

then Yutaka said, “These stupid louts wish to express their hum-

ble apologies for their mistake. They hope you will forgive them

this time.”

“Please,” Akitada said to the two clerks, “get up, both of you.

Shijo-san, there was no need for this. The mistake has been explained to me, and I assure you I am much better.”

“That is good,” cried Yutaka. “Good and generous. Yes. Well,

then.” He looked at the two clerks, who were still on their knees,

and cried, “You heard, you lazy oafs. Up! Up! Back to work! And

don’t make such a foolish mistake again or I’ll see that you get

another beating.”

Akitada winced. Yutaka had been rather unfair. They had

merely responded to his cries for help. No wonder the big one,

Genzo, gave Akitada a rather nasty look before he scurried out.

They blamed him for their punishment.

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

85

The day passed quietly. As a rule the documents Akitada

worked on were of little interest to him, and he had fallen into a

habit of copying mechanically while turning over in his mind

the many puzzling events of the past days. Foremost among

these was the death of Jisei. Who had beaten him to death?

Ogata had mentioned a fight, but surely the prisoners would

have been caught. Had it been done by the guards? Why? He was

such a weak, inoffensive creature, and much too timid to make

an escape attempt. Besides, he had counted on being released

shortly. And that fat drunkard Ogata had almost certainly cov-

ered up the murder out of fear. That suggested that Jisei had

been killed on someone’s orders. Had he seen something he

should not have? Akitada remembered with a shiver how cer-

tain Jisei had been that he would be sent home. Who had prom-

ised him an early release? Akitada had taken it for a sort of

merciful practicality because Jisei’s festering knees and arms

made him useless for crawling about in silver mines, but there

were laws against releasing prisoners before their sentences

were served. And that left only an empty promise, a lie, which

was never intended to be kept. The real intention all along must

have been to kill him. Akitada decided that Jisei had known