Текст книги "Island of Exiles "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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did you rob the place when you’ve been making your own silver

bars?” He burped loudly.

“I didn’t.” Shiro clutched his bag of coins. “It doesn’t matter.

I’ll go now. Thank you very much. So sorry for the inconve-

nience.”

But Yamada had lost his patience. He rose, glowered at Shiro,

and snapped, “Not so fast. This man has accused you of a crime.

You are under arrest pending a full investigation. Guard!”

Shiro fell to his knees and began to weep. “I didn’t want to

do it. Tosan made me do it, your honor. And I gave him most of

the money. I only got thirty coppers for my trouble.”

“Tosan? Who’s Tosan?” Akitada asked.

“He’s Shiro’s neighbor,” volunteered the old drunk.

“Tosan used to work here,” muttered Shiro.

Yamada was dumbfounded. “You mean my own clerk

planned this?” he asked. Both the beggar and Shiro nodded

their heads. Yamada looked at the waiting guard. “Send someone

to bring Tosan here this instant!” The guard saluted and left.

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Akitada said, “You made the clay bars from your wife’s

clay and fired them in her kiln, didn’t you, Shiro?” The man

nodded miserably. “Then you covered them with foil and

brought them to the Valuables Office, and the clerk Tosan paid

you two strings of cash for them, and you and Tosan divided the

money later?” Again the man nodded. “Did Tosan help you set

fire to the office, too?”

“Oh, the evil creature!” Yamada cried, his eyes round with

shock.

“I didn’t set the fire,” whimpered the thin man.

“Never mind,” said Akitada. “The judge will have the whole

story out of both of you with a good flogging. And then, you

dog, it will be the mines for a skinny fellow like you.”

It was an inspired threat.

“No! Not the mines. I’ll talk, but not the mines.” Prostrating

himself before them, Shiro knocked his head on the ground.

“Let’s hear the whole story, then,” demanded Akitada.

“We’ve been wondering how an ordinary thief could pull such a

trick, but as you had clay handy and a clay oven hot enough to

bake it and melt a bit of silver, that part is clear as water. How

did you get involved?”

“Tosan made me do it because I owed him money.”

Yamada said disgustedly, “I should have fired that crook a

long time ago.”

At this the man calmed down a little—thinking perhaps

that he had two sympathetic listeners—and poured out his

story.

Leaving aside the fact that he cast himself as the helpless

victim of Tosan, the mastermind, it had a strong element of

truth. As neighbors, Tosan and Shiro had spent their evenings

together, drinking as they watched Shiro’s wife making her pot-

tery. Tosan complained about his work, his low wages, and his

master’s unfair reprimands, while Shiro blamed his misfortunes

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117

on ill luck. Tosan often described the stored wealth in glowing

terms to Shiro, and the two men would discuss the pleasures

that could be had with just one bar of silver. Once Tosan picked

up some fresh clay to shape into an approximation of a silver

bar. That moment the idea was born. Shiro shaped the clay,

glazed and baked it, wrapped it in a few sheets of silver foil, and thus produced two replicas of silver bars which met with

Tosan’s approval. The next day, Shiro deposited the bars and

took away two strings of a thousand cash each. They split the

proceeds that very night. Soon after, Yamada dismissed Tosan

for laziness.

On Tosan’s instruction, Shiro had given a false name and

place of residence, but as the entry was in Tosan’s handwriting,

the ex-clerk decided that a bit of arson might serve to destroy

the evidence and also be a nice revenge, since Yamada would

have to replace the ledgers or suffer severe reprimands himself.

Shiro claimed his part in this had merely been to carry the lad-

der Tosan used to break the high window panel and toss the

torch down on the ledgers.

At this opportune moment, two constables arrived with

Tosan. He was a fat man with the red, puffy face of a habitual

drinker, and he took in the situation at a glance.

Yamada greeted him with a shout of fury. “You miserable

dog! Not enough that you spent half your time here drunk out

of your head or asleep; you had the ingratitude to reward my

trust and patience by stealing and setting fire to the Valuables

Office.”

“What?” cried Tosan. “Who told lies about me?” He looked

at the old drunk, who grinned back impudently. “Him? A beg-

gar? He’s a piece of dung who makes up stories to get wine.” He

turned to Shiro, who still knelt weeping in front of Yamada’s

desk. “Or him? He’s owed me money for months and is proba-

bly trying to weasel out of paying me.”

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For a moment, Yamada looked dangerously close to having

a fit. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before find-

ing his voice. “We’ll see who speaks the truth,” he finally said, his eyes flashing. “You are both under arrest. And the charge is plotting to overthrow His Majesty’s government. You, Tosan, have

misused your official position to steal goods placed into the

government’s safekeeping for the express purpose of stirring up

popular unrest against the emperor.”

Akitada’s jaw dropped. The charge was as ridiculous as it

was brilliant. Treason on a penal colony warranted the death

penalty. The clerk knew it, too. He uttered a strangled croak and

fainted.

Yamada stood beside Akitada outside the Valuables Office

when they took away their two thieves. “Thank heaven it’s over,”

he said with a deep sigh of relief. “I had given up all hope, but

now all is well. And I even have my silver back.”

“Well, yes,” said Akitada, “though you might express your

appreciation to the drunk. He did identify the thief.”

◆

That night, Tosan and Shiro signed their confessions, and

Masako came to Akitada for the third time.

Her eyes shone as she slipped under Akitada’s blanket.

“Thank you, Taketsuna,” she whispered, reaching for him.

“Father could never have done it without your help.”

Akitada put her hands from his body and sat up. “No,

Masako,” he said, “not tonight or any other night. You are beau-

tiful and you know quite well that I find you most desirable, but

I cannot take you to wife. What has happened between us was a

mistake, my mistake, which I regret deeply. I’m already married,

and there can be no formal relationship between us. Because I

value your father’s good opinion, I will not make love to you

again.”

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

119

Making this speech had been extraordinarily hard. He had

lain awake wondering what to say to her. Having spent every

moment since their first encounter in self-recriminations, he

had added self-disgust after he succumbed to his desire for her

a second time. A third time would, by custom, formalize their

relationship, and he could not bring himself to take that step.

But he did not like hurting her and watched her face anxiously,

expecting a torrent of grief and arguments.

But Masako neither wept nor argued. She said calmly, “I did

not expect you to marry me. But I thought we might be lovers.

I like to pay my debts.”

He flinched a little. “You owe me nothing. You and your

father have offered me hospitality and I have done little enough

in return. I am in your debt.”

“As you wish.” She got up then and bent for her discarded

undergown. Turning away a little, she slipped it back on. The

flickering candlelight made the thin silk transparent, and in her

modesty she was more seductive than she had been when she

had pressed her warm naked body to his. “When you leave us,

will you remember me?” she asked without looking at him.

He felt ashamed. “I will never forget you, Masako,” he said

and caught her hand to his cheek. “I am half in love with you.”

She smiled a little then, and left.

The following morning, after Osawa approved Yamada’s

books, Akitada departed on his journey to find Prince Okisada’s

killer.

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

T H E U G LY B U D D H A

Akitada welcomed the journey. Masako had slipped too deeply

under his skin, and he was torn by feelings of shame and guilt.

And then there was the fact that he had put his assignment

from his mind in order to satisfy his curiosity about the girl and

her father. It was high time he did what he had come to do and

went home to his family.

The day began inauspiciously in Yutaka’s office. The gover-

nor had sent the shijo on an errand so that he and Akitada would have a private moment to discuss the upcoming journey.

“I know that you want to meet Kumo for yourself. Osawa

always calls at his manor to go over the tax rolls with him and

discuss the upcoming harvest and the mine production. After

that you will travel on to Minato. Osawa has a letter from me to

Professor Sakamoto, just a pretext to get you into his house. The

return journey is to take you through Tsukahara. The prince’s

manor is there and Taira still lives in it. Okisada also had many

friends among the Buddhist clergy at the Konponji Temple

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121

nearby. The temple happens to be the district tax collector. You

will probably find the monk Shunsei there. If word has reached

Kumo, he may approach you first, but if he does not, then you

will no doubt find a way to talk to him.”

That was perhaps overly optimistic, but Akitada thanked

him and asked, “Can you provide me with some signed paper in

case I have to overrule your good Inspector Osawa?”

Mutobe’s face fell. “Oh, dear. Yes, of course. I should have

thought of that. Better not tell him anything yet, right? Osawa is

all right, really. A bit lazy, but he’s unmarried and can travel

whenever I need him. Besides, he is my only inspector and

known to Kumo and Sakamoto and the others.” He helped him-

self to Yutaka’s ink, brush, and paper and dashed off a short let-

ter, then gave it to Akitada, who read it and nodded. Mutobe

took his seal from his sleeve, inked it with red ink, and im-

pressed it next to his signature. Then he handed the folded note

to Akitada, who was trying to tuck it away with his other papers

when he made a disturbing discovery.

He was wearing his own clothes again, having packed his

blue cotton clerk’s robe in his saddlebag. When he touched his

neck where the fabric was doubled over and stitched into the

stiff collar, he felt the papers inside, but the seam he had opened to pass the imperial document to Mutobe the day they met had

been resewn. Masako must have discovered the loose stitches

when she had cleaned his robe. Surely she had found the papers.

He felt beads of perspiration on his brow.

“What is the matter?” asked the governor, seeing his face.

“Nothing. Just wondering where to put this,” Akitada said,

holding up the governor’s note. He quickly tucked it in his sash

as footsteps approached and Yutaka entered with Osawa and

one of the scribes, the big fellow called Genzo.

They knelt and bowed, the scribe looking sullen and giving

Akitada a hate-filled look. Of the two who had been punished

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by Yutaka for the vicious beating they had given him, he was the

one who had continued to bear Akitada a powerful grudge.

“Ah, yes, Yutaka,” said Mutobe. “Is this the man who is to go

along?”

“Yes, Your Excellency. His name is Genzo.”

Akitada was dismayed but could hardly object.

The governor continued, “I realize you cannot easily spare

both Taketsuna and him, but it will only be for a few days, four

at the most. They will take horses to make better speed. I have

sent instructions to the stables to have them ready in two hours.”

“Horses?” gasped Osawa, then bowed immediately. “I beg

your pardon, Excellency, but I did not expect . . . a great honor, of course . . . but I usually travel on foot. Perhaps a sedan chair?

Surely good bearers can move as quickly as a horse. And the two

young men can run alongside.”

The big scribe’s jaw dropped.

“No,” said the governor brusquely, getting to his feet. “You

will make all the speed you can. Oh. I am dispensing with

a guard. Taketsuna has given his word not to escape.” He

departed, leaving consternation behind.

Osawa stared at Akitada as if he were measuring his poten-

tial for unexpected violence.

“I can’t ride,” the scribe announced. “You’ll have to take

Minoru instead.”

Osawa looked down his nose at him. “If you are referring to

the other scribe in the archives, I am told he is nearly illiterate and it takes him forever to copy a page.”

“Well, then just take the prisoner. Master Yutaka always

brags about how fast and elegant his brushstrokes are.”

“I need you both,” snapped Osawa. “He is to act as my sec-

retary and you’ll do the copying. You are both under my orders

now and will do as you are told.” He looked hard at Akitada,

who bowed.

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

123

The problems multiplied at the stables. The horses were

lively and pranced about the stable yard, making it hard for the

grooms to control them.

Osawa saw this with an expression of horror. “These horses

are half wild,” he protested. “We want something tamer.”

The head groom shook his head. “Governor’s orders.”

Akitada took the bridle of the calmest horse and led it to

Osawa. “Please take this one, Inspector,” he said with a bow. “He

has a soft mouth and will be manageable.” He turned to the

scribe. Although Genzo was big-boned and heavy, he cringed

from the horses. “And you, of course, will want the black?” The

black was so big that two grooms hung on to his bridle.

Genzo shot Akitada a venomous look. “You take him,” he

said. “I have no desire to kill myself.”

“As you wish.” Akitada swung himself into the saddle, taking

pleasure in being on horseback again, while Genzo had to be

helped onto the third horse and instantly fell back down. “Are

there any mules?” Akitada asked the grinning head groom.

A sturdy mule was substituted for the horse, and Genzo

managed to get in its saddle. They rode out of the stable yard

accompanied by half-suppressed laughter from the grooms,

passing the prison and Yamada’s house without seeing either

father or daughter.

And so they left Mano and headed inland. The narrow road

wound northeast through a wide plain of rice paddies stretch-

ing into the distance. On both sides wooded mountains rose,

and ahead lay Mount Kimpoku, a dark cone against the blue

sky. It marked the other side of Sadoshima and overlooked Lake

Kamo and Minato.

The two horses and the mule trotted along smoothly. Lush

green rice paddies promised a good harvest, a soft wind rustled

through the pines lining the way, and small birds twittered in

the branches. The sky was clear except for a few cloudlets, and

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the sun had not yet brought the midday heat. Now and then a

hawk circled above, looking for field mice or a careless dove.

It would have been altogether pleasant, except for Akitada’s

assignment and his companions’ ill humor. The former he

could do nothing about; the latter he tried to ignore. Osawa was

becoming used to his horse and did not do too badly, but he

clearly disliked riding and was in a foul humor, which he took

out on Genzo. The scribe kept slipping off his mule, causing

delays while Akitada dismounted to help him back in the sad-

dle. Genzo maintained a sullen silence under the barrage of

ridicule and reproof heaped upon him by Osawa, and Akitada’s

assistance made his antagonism worse instead of better.

They reached the hamlet of Hatano by midday and stopped

at a small temple. In the grove of cedars surrounding the temple

hall, they ate a light repast of cold rice wrapped in oak leaves

and drank water from a well bubbling among mossy rocks.

Osawa, still in a bad mood, maintained distance between him-

self and his helpers, choosing to sit on a large rock near the well while making Akitada and Genzo squat on the ground next to

their mounts.

Akitada was glad not to have to engage in chitchat with

either of his companions. As soon as feasible, he left to relieve

himself and inspected the collar of his robe by unpicking some

threads. Both the imperial documents that commanded him to

investigate Prince Okisada’s death and Governor Mutobe’s safe

conduct were still there and in good condition. But he cursed

himself for his carelessness; he should have foreseen his robe

might need cleaning, though he had not expected to bleed quite

so copiously over it. Masako must have washed out the blood-

stains. But had she removed the documents first and later rein-

serted them and sewn up the collar?

If so, had she recognized the imperial seal? Could she read?

Her rough manners and the fact that she was a girl suggested

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

125

that Yamada probably had not bothered to teach her, concen-

trating his efforts on his son instead. He had certainly not called on her to help him with his bookkeeping. But wouldn’t she have

taken the documents to her father, who would have recognized

them immediately? She had not done so, or Yamada would have

mentioned it. It was puzzling and worrisome.

They remounted and continued the journey for another

mile when Akitada’s horse shied and unseated him. He landed

hard on his hip and right shoulder and stared in surprise at his

saddle, which lay beside him in the road. The big black had

jumped off the roadway into a rice paddy, where the deep mud

prevented him from galloping off. Akitada picked himself up to

a snicker from Genzo. Osawa frowned but said nothing. When

he looked at his saddle, Akitada saw that both saddle band and

back strap had broken because someone had partially cut them.

Genzo’s work, he thought, but he said nothing. Instead he

caught the black and, slinging the saddle and saddle packs over

his shoulder, rode the rest of the way bareback.

They reached the manor of Kumo Sanetomo, high constable

of Sadoshima, before sunset. They had passed through rich rice

lands, dotted here and there by small farms and modest

manors, but Kumo’s estate was very large even by mainland

standards. The walled and gated manor house was surrounded

by a cluster of service buildings and an extensive garden. The

whole looked more like a small village than a single residence.

Deep, thatched roofs covered the main hall and attached

pavilions. The garden stretched beyond. A separate enclosure

contained stables, kitchens, storage buildings, and servants’

quarters.

Akitada was intrigued by these signs of wealth. “The high

constable’s manor looks more like a nobleman’s seat than a

farm,” he said to Osawa, who was saddle sore and glowered.

“All those stables must contain many horses, and he probably

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employs and houses a hundred servants. If the place were better

fortified, it might be a military stronghold.”

Osawa grunted. “Kumo, as his father before him, is very

wealthy. Horses are his particular fancy. Being a descendant of

an old noble family, he carries on its traditions of hunting,

swordsmanship, and archery from the back of a horse. Wait till

you see the residence. I doubt there are many better in the

capital.”

The big double gate opened promptly at their approach.

Kumo’s servants were well-dressed and healthy-looking men

who took the animals and directed the travelers to the main hall

of the residence. There an elderly house servant in a black silk

robe received them and led them into a small but elegant room.

Sliding doors were open to the garden, panels covering storage

areas had landscape paintings pasted on them, the rice mats

underfoot were thick and new, and on the large black desk

rested lacquered and painted writing boxes, jade water contain-

ers, bamboo brush holders, and a small, delicate ivory carving

of a fox.

Osawa took one of the cushions near the desk, leaving

Akitada and Genzo standing. After a minute, a young woman in

a pretty green silk robe entered and placed a tray with refresh-

ments before Osawa. She bowed and informed him that her

master would come immediately.

He did. They could hear his firm steps and deep voice in the

corridor outside before he flung back the sliding door and

ducked in. The doorway was not particularly low, but Kumo

was one of the tallest men Akitada had seen. He guessed him to

be about his own age and in excellent physical condition.

Dressed in a copper-colored brocade hunting jacket and brown

silk trousers, Kumo wore his hair loose to just above his broad

shoulders and had a full mustache and short, well-trimmed

chin beard. Perhaps he meant to combine the costly costume of

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

127

the court noble with the manly appearance of the military

leader. His eyes, strangely light in the deeply tanned face, passed indifferently over Akitada and Genzo, who had knelt and bowed

their heads at his entrance.

“Ah, it’s my good friend Osawa,” Kumo said, his voice filling

the small room, much as his large figure dominated it.

Osawa bowed deeply. “It is my very great pleasure to call on

Your Honor again.”

Kumo laughed, seating himself on the other cushion and

pouring wine from a flask into the two cups on the tray. Both

flask and matching cups were of Chinese porcelain. He passed

one of the cups to Osawa. “Never mind all the respectful

phrases, my friend. I’m just a simple farmer who is honored by

the visit of our governor’s most trusted advisor. Please, eat and

drink. You must be quite exhausted from your long journey.

How is His Excellency these days?”

Osawa blushed with pleasure at the attention. “Not so well,

I’m afraid,” he confided. He drank, he nibbled, and he became

expansive. “In fact, he’s quite distraught. His son is awaiting

trial, you know. The governor paid him a visit just the other

day. I expect he was trying to elicit some shred of evidence in

his favor.”

“Ah.” Kumo shook his head. “A dreadful tragedy. Was he

successful? The trial is set for the end of this month, is it not?”

“Yes. It’s only a week away. And he was not successful, I

think. His spirits were quite low when he came back, and his

servants say he does not sleep at night.”

Akitada was surprised how well informed Osawa was about

Mutobe’s private life, but he was even more intent on watching

the high constable, hoping to get the measure of the man who

might have played a part in the late prince’s life and death. Sud-

denly he found himself the object of Kumo’s interest and

quickly lowered his eyes again. Too late.

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“You have a new assistant, I see,” drawled Kumo. “Usually

you bring only one scribe with you. This signifies some new

honor, I assume?”

Osawa flushed and laughed a little. “You are too kind, sir.

No, no. The fellow is a prisoner who happens to write well. The

governor is desperately short-handed and wished us to return

quickly.” He added in an aggrieved tone, “He even insisted we

ride horses on this occasion.”

“What? No bearers, and you not used to riding? My dear

Osawa, you must have a hot bath immediately and rest before

we talk business. Perhaps your assistants can start on the work

with the help of my secretary. Come,” he said, getting to his feet,

“I have just returned from hunting myself. We shall enjoy a

nice soaking together and you can fill me in on all the news

from Mano.”

To do Osawa justice, he hesitated. But then he rose. “You are

most kind, Your Honor,” he said. “I am a little fatigued. If your

secretary will be good enough to give the documents in ques-

tion to Taketsuna—the new fellow—he will show the scribe

what should be copied for our files. This Taketsuna has a good

education. I shall inspect their work in the morning.” Turning

to his companions, he said, “You heard me?”

Akitada nodded and bowed. Kumo and Osawa disappeared,

and a servant took him and Genzo into a large office where sev-

eral scribes were bent over writing desks or getting books and

boxes from the shelves which covered three sides of the room.

Kumo’s secretary was a small, pleasant man in his mid-

fifties. He took one look at Genzo’s broad face and dull eyes and

addressed Akitada. “I started gathering the relevant tax docu-

ments the moment I heard of Inspector Osawa’s arrival,” he

said, with a gesture to a desk covered with bulging document

boxes. “My name is Shiba. Please feel free to ask for anything.

My staff will see to it immediately.”

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129

Kumo’s scribes, all pretending to be busy while casting curi-

ous glances at the visitors, were a far cry from the pitiful staff of the governor’s archives, and Akitada, encouraged by Shiba’s

courteous manner, said, “I am Taketsuna, an exile from the

mainland and still a stranger here. Forgive my curiosity, but I

was told that capable scribes and clerks are extremely rare. How

is it that your master seems so well supplied with them?”

Shiba chuckled. “We are part of his household. The master

and his father before him saved likely boys from work in the

mines by training them in different skills,” he said. “I, for exam-

ple, was sixteen when my mother died in poverty. Like you,

my father came here as a prisoner. My mother followed him

when I was four. My father died soon after our arrival, and my

poor mother worked in the fields to support us. She tried to

teach me a little, but when she succumbed also, I—being a boy

and small of stature—was sent to the mines. The master’s father

found me there and took me into his household, where he had

me taught by his son’s tutor. My master continues his father’s

legacy.”

Shiba’s image of Kumo differed diametrically from Mu-

tobe’s. The governor had called young Kumo “haughty and

overbearing,” but Akitada had seen no sign of it in the man who

had greeted a mere inspector like Osawa as a valued guest.

Turning with new interest to the documents, he saw quickly

that Shiba and his scribes had indeed been well trained. The sys-

tem of accounting was efficient and the brushwork of the

scribes far superior to Genzo’s. He quickly identified the rele-

vant reports and handed some of them to Genzo with instruc-

tions to begin copying.

Genzo folded his arms. “Do it yourself,” he growled. “I’m

not your servant.”

The man needed a good beating, but Akitada said peace-

ably, “Very well. Then you will have to read through those and

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summarize them for the governor.” He pointed to a stack of

documents he had set aside for himself.

Genzo went to look at the top document, frowned, then

said, “Dull stuff, this. I prefer the copying.” Having got his way, he settled down and started to rub ink. Akitada smiled.

Shiba had watched with interest. He said in a low voice,

“Forgive me, Taketsuna, but I see that you are a man not only of

superior education but also of wisdom. Perhaps, before your

trouble, you had the good fortune to live in the capital?”

“That is so.”

Shiba pressed his hands together and said fervently, “Truly,

how very blessed your life must have been. And by chance, have

you ever visited the imperial palace?”

Akitada smiled. “I used to work there and once I even saw

His Majesty from a distance. He rode in a gilded palanquin and

was accompanied by the empress and her ladies in their own

palanquins, a very beautiful sight.”

“Oh!” breathed Shiba. “I imagine it must have been like a

glimpse of the Western Paradise.” He was rapt with pleasure for

a moment, then remembered his duty. “Forgive my chatter. You

will want to get started. Perhaps tonight, after your work, you

might join me for a cup of wine?”

Akitada said regretfully, “You are most kind, but I do not

think Inspector Osawa will permit it.”

“Ah. Well, I think that may be managed. You are now in the

Kumo mansion. All men are treated with respect here. I’ll send

someone for you after your evening rice.”

Akitada spent an hour checking the tax statements and

writing brief summaries of the salient points, a chore he was

abundantly familiar with. At sundown, a gong sounded some-

where nearby. Genzo dropped his brush noisily in the water

container, yawned, and stretched. “About time they fed us,” he

muttered.

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

131

Akitada rose and went to look over Genzo’s shoulders. The

sheet of paper the man had been copying was splotched with

ink, and the characters were barely legible. Worse, a few were

missing so that whole phrases made no sense.

“You’ll have to do better,” he said. “We want clean copies,

and you left out words and characters. Do that one over

again more carefully.” He leaned forward to reach for the other

sheets, pathetically few for an hour’s work. “Is that all you’ve—”

he started to say, when Genzo suddenly lashed out, pushing

Akitada back so hard that he sat down on the floor.

The scribe was up quickly for someone of his size and gen-

eral lack of energy. “I’ll teach you to tell me what to do, filthy

scum,” he ground out and threw himself on Akitada.

Irritated past reason, Akitada met the attack by leaning back

and kicking him with both legs in the stomach. Genzo sucked in

his breath sharply as he flew back against the table, scattering

papers and ink. Akitada stood and pulled him up by the front of

his robe. He said through gritted teeth, “I have had enough of

you. Don’t think I don’t know you cut my saddle bands. One

more outburst from you, and I’ll make sure you never walk

again. Do you understand?”

Eyes bulging, Genzo nodded. He looked green and held his

stomach.

“Clean up this mess,” Akitada snapped, dropping him back

on the floor. “I don’t think you will feel much like food, so you

may as well spend the time copying those papers over neatly. I’ll

let the secretary know that you are finishing some work before

retiring.” He strolled out of the room and left the building.

The evening was delightfully cool after the heat of the day.

If the high constable did, in fact, practice common courtesy

toward even the lowliest prisoner on the island, then his

staff might share his philosophy and allow him the privileges

accorded a guest. He decided to test this theory by exploring

132

I . J . P a r k e r

and found that, wherever he strayed, servants smiled and

bobbed their heads. One or two stopped to ask if he was lost,

but when he told them he was just stretching his legs and

admiring the residence, they left him alone. He did not, of

course, enter the private quarters but wandered all around them

by way of the gardens.

These were extensive and quite as well designed as any he