Текст книги "Island of Exiles "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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had visited in the noble mansions and villas of the capital. Paths

snaked through trees, shrubs, and rockeries, crossing miniature

streams over curved bridges to lead to various garden pavilions.

Patches of tawny lilies bloomed everywhere and birds flitted

from branch to branch.

One of the pavilions turned out to be a miniature temple.

Akitada was enchanted by its dainty size, which nevertheless

duplicated the ornate carvings, blue-tiled roofs, and gilded

ornamentation of large temples. Someone had taken great pains

and spent a considerable amount of money on this little build-

ing. He climbed the steps to a tiny veranda surrounded by a red-

lacquered balustrade and entered through the carved doors.

Inside, every surface seemed carved and painted in glorious

reds, greens, blacks, oranges, and golds. Even the floor was

painted, and in its center stood a gilded altar table on its own

carved and lacquered dais. A wooden Buddha statue rested on

the altar, and a number of gilded vessels with offerings stood

before it. Behind the Buddha figure, a richly embroidered silk

cloth was suspended, depicting swirling golden clouds, em-

blems of Kumo’s family name, on a deep blue background. A

faint haze of intensely fragrant incense curled and spiraled

lazily from a golden censer, perfuming the air and veiling

the gilded tablets inscribed with the names and titles of Kumo

ancestors. This was the Kumo family’s ancestral altar.

Akitada read some of the tablets and saw the names of two

emperors among the distant forebears of the present Kumo.

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133

Only the most recent tablets lacked titles. Kumo’s great-grand-

father had been stripped of his rank and sent here into exile.

Akitada reflected that few families survived such punishment in

the style of this one. His own family, though they had retained

their titles, barely subsisted since his famous ancestor had died

in exile.

He made a perfunctory bow to the Buddha. No larger than

a child of three or four, the figure was an unskilled carving from

some dull wood. It seemed out of place among all the gold

and lacquer work, yet somehow for that reason more numi-

nous, as if it somehow symbolized what the Kumos had be-

come. Perhaps a local artisan had carved it or, more likely, the

first Kumo exile had done so in order to find solace in religious

devotion.

Stepping closer, Akitada found that the surface was aston-

ishingly smooth for an artless carving, but the Buddha’s face

repelled him. It was quite ugly and the god’s expression was

more like a demon’s snarl than the gentle, peaceful smile of or-

dinary representations. The figure had golden eyes, but they

shone almost shockingly bright from that dark, distorted vis-

age. Odd. The Buddha’s shining eyes reminded Akitada of

Kumo’s pale eyes and he wondered about his ancestry.

A faint and unearthly music came from the garden. Akitada

stepped out on the veranda to listen. Somewhere someone was

playing a flute, and he felt a great longing for his own instru-

ment. The melody was both entrancing and beautifully played.

Like a bee scenting nectar, Akitada followed the music on paths

which wound and twisted, leading him away as soon as he

seemed to get closer until he lost all sense of direction. Shrub-

bery and trees hid and revealed views. He heard the splash of

running water and passed a miniature waterfall somewhere

along the way; he heard the cries of birds and waterfowl, then

caught a glimpse of a pond, or miniature lake with its own small

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island. The flute seemed to parody the sounds of the garden

until he wondered which was real.

The artist was playing a very old tune with consummate

skill. It was called “Land of the Rice Ears,” and Akitada stopped,

following each sequence of notes, paying particular attention to

the second part, for it contained a passage he had never mas-

tered himself. There! So that was the way it was supposed to be.

He smiled, raising his hands to finger imaginary stops, wishing

he could play as well.

Just after the last note faded, he reached the lake. The sky

above was still faintly rosy, almost iridescent, like the inside of a shell. All was silent. A butterfly rose from one of the lilies that nodded at the water’s rim. Then a pair of ducks paddled around

the island and lifted into the evening air with a soft flapping of

wings and a shower of sparkling drops. Akitada wondered if he

had strayed into a dream.

With a sigh, he followed the lakeshore. His stomach

growled, reminding him that food was more useful than this

longing for a flute he had been forced to leave behind. Then his

eye caught a movement on the small island. He could see the

curved roof of another small pavilion rising behind the trees.

Two spots of color shimmered through a gap between the trees,

a patch of white and another of deep lilac.

A dainty bridge connected the island to the path he was on.

He crossed it and heard the sound of women’s voices. Two

ladies in white and wisteria blue sat behind the brilliant red

balustrade and under the gilded bells that hung from the eaves

of the pavilion. Thinking them Kumo’s wives, Akitada stopped

and prepared to retreat. But then he saw that both women were

quite old. The one in purple silk had very long white hair which

she wore loose, like young noblewomen, so that it draped over

her shoulders and back and spread across the wide skirts of her

gown. She was tiny, seemingly shrunken with age, but her skin

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135

was as white as her hair, and the rich purple silk of her outer

robe was lined with many layers of other gowns in four or five

different costly colors. Such a costume might have been worn by

a young princess in times gone by. On this frail old woman it

mocked the vanity of youth.

It was the other woman who had been playing the flute—

the other woman who, in sharp contrast to her companion,

wore a plain white robe and veil, and whose face and hands were

darkened from exposure to the sun. The nun Ribata.

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

F LU T E M U S I C F RO M

A N OT H E R L I F E

“Approach, my lord!”

The old lady’s voice was cracked and dissonant, sharply at

odds with the lovely sound of the flute which still spun and

wove through Akitada’s memory.

He felt a moment’s panic. Was she someone who had known

him in another place and recognized him in spite of his beard?

Surely not.

The old lady in the gorgeous robes waved a painted fan at

him. Gold dust sparkled like stars on its delicate blue paper.

“Come, come!” she invited him impatiently. “Do not be shy. You

were never shy with me before.”

He felt completely out of his depth and glanced back at the

small bridge he had just crossed as if it had led him into an oth-

erworldly place, like the Tokutaro of the fairy tale who had

ended up among fox spirits.

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137

The nun Ribata put down her flute and gave him an amused

smile.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, bowing to both women. “I

heard the music and came to meet the artist.”

“Silly man.” The old lady snickered coquettishly behind her

fan. “You thought it was I and hoped to find me alone. Come sit

beside me. Naka no Kimi won’t give old lovers away.”

Old lovers? And Naka no Kimi surely referred to an imperial

princess? It dawned on him that the old lady must be demented.

Akitada heaved a sigh of relief and walked up the steps of the

pavilion.

Ribata gestured toward the cushion beside her companion.

“Please be seated,” she said, her own voice as warm and resonant

as a temple bell. “Lady Saisho is the high constable’s grand-

mother. We are old friends.”

Whatever her official status, the Lady Saisho had survived

the harsh years of early exile to live in luxury again. But to what avail? Close up, she looked incredibly frail, withered, and wrinkled. He saw now that her skin was not abnormally white, but

that she had painted her face with white lead. Rouged lips and

soot-ringed eyes parodied former beauty, and heavy perfume

mingled with the sour smell of old age and rotting gums. Yet she

eyed Akitada flirtatiously and batted her eyes at him.

Feeling an overwhelming pity, he bowed deeply and said, “I

hope I see your ladyship in good spirits on this lovely evening.”

“Lovely indeed. A poem, Lord Yoriyoshi,” she cried gaily,

waving her fan with the studied grace of a court lady. “Make me

a poem about the evening so I can respond.”

“A poem?” Apparently she took him for a poet called

Yoriyoshi. Poetry was not one of Akitada’s skills. “Er,” he stam-

mered, looking to the nun for help.

“She lives in a happier past,” said Ribata softly. “Humor her,

please.”

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Hardly helpful. His eyes roamed around for inspiration and

fell on the bridge. The last of the sunlight was gone and the bril-

liant red of its balustrade had turned to a dull brown of with-

ered maple leaves. Akitada recited, “The evening sheds a lonely

light upon the bridge suspended between two arms of land.”

The old lady hissed behind her fan. “Prince Okisada could

have done better, even when his illness was upon him. However,

let me see.” She tapped her chin with the fan. “‘Evening,’ ‘lonely,’

‘suspended,’ ‘arms.’ ” She cackled triumphantly, and cried, in a

grating singsong, “Waiting, I cradle loneliness in my arms, hop-

ing you will cross the bridge.”

Akitada and Ribata applauded politely, their eyes on the

ridiculous old creature who simpered behind her fan and sent

inviting glances toward Akitada.

They were unaware that someone had joined them until

Kumo spoke.

“I think my honored grandmother must feel the chill of the

air. I have come to escort her back to her quarters.”

Akitada knelt quickly, his head bowed, hoping he had not

broken some rule, but Kumo took no notice of him. He went to

his grandmother and bent to lift her to her feet.

“No!” She scrambled back like a small, stubborn child. “I

don’t want to go. Lord Yoriyoshi and I are exchanging poems. His

are not as good as the prince’s, but . . .” She screwed up her face and began to cry. “The prince died,” she wailed. “All of my friends die. It’s your fault.” And she lashed out with a frail hand like a

bird’s claw and slapped her grandson’s face. He stepped back, his

expression grim, as she staggered to her feet and faced him with

glittering eyes. “I hate you,” she shrieked. “You are a monster! I

wish you would die, too.” Then she burst into violent tears and

the mask of the court beauty disintegrated into a grotesque min-

gling of black and white paint. Her thin frame shook in its volu-

minous, many-colored silks, and she began to sway alarmingly.

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

139

Both Ribata and Kumo went to her aid. “She is overtired,”

muttered Ribata, while he said, “I hate to see her like this.”

Lady Saisho clung to the nun, but her tears diminished, and

after a moment she allowed her grandson to lift her in his arms

and carry her away with tender care. The nun walked with them

a little ways, then returned.

Akitada had got to his feet. “What was she talking about?” he

asked, puzzled by Lady Saisho’s references to Prince Okisada.

Ribata sighed. “Old age may take away the mind, yet leave

the pain behind. She has seen much grief and many horrors in

her long life.”

He gave her a sharp look. “I have heard that, in spite of the

favor shown the high constable by the government in the capi-

tal, her grandson still bears a grudge for what happened three

generations ago.”

Ribata looked into the distance, her arms folded into her

wide sleeves, and murmured, “They are a proud family.”

Following her glance, Akitada said, “Look around you.” His

sweeping gesture encompassed the elegant garden with its

pavilion, shrine, lake, and lacquered bridge. “The Kumos have

not fared badly here. I see power, wealth, and luxury all about

me where I least expected it.”

She gazed silently at the scene. The last light was fading in the

sky and already the darkness of night seeped forth from the trees

and ground. Fireflies glimmered faintly. Only the lake still shim-

mered, reflecting, like a lady’s polished silver mirror, the dying

lavender of the sky. “You play the flute?” Ribata asked softly.

The question startled Akitada. “I used to, poorly, in an-

other life.”

She went back into the pavilion. Picking up her flute, she

offered it. “Come. Play for me.”

Ribata was a woman of extraordinary culture, one of the mys-

teries of this island, and part of him did not want to play, fearing 140

I . J . P a r k e r

her censure, even if it remained unspoken. But his desire over-

came his shyness. He took up the flute with a bow. They seated

themselves, and he put the mouthpiece to his lips and blew gently.

The sound the instrument produced was strong and very beau-

tiful. It told him that this flute was of extraordinary, perhaps

legendary quality. He looked at it in wonder. At first glance very

plain and ordinary, it consisted of a piece of bamboo with seven

holes and a mouthpiece—called a cicada because it resembled the

carapace of that insect—the whole wrapped in paper-thin cherry

bark of a lustrous deep red and then lacquered with the sap of the

sumac tree until its patina shimmered like layered gossamer.

The flute was old and must be very precious, a family heir-

loom. “What is its name?” he asked reverently.

“Plover’s Cry.”

“Ah.” He raised the flute to his lips again. The name was apt.

High, clear, and full of longing, the notes resembled the melan-

choly cry of the male bird on the seashore calling for its lost

mate. His hands shook a little with awe and pleasure, and he

closed his eyes before playing in earnest.

The song he chose was one he knew well, but still he was

nervous. He knew he could not do justice to such a flute, even if

he tried his best. “Rolling Waves and Flying Clouds” was not his

favorite, but it contained a passage he had never quite mastered,

and he hoped Ribata would correct him. So he concentrated,

paying attention to his fingering, and thought he did not do too

badly. But when he opened his eyes and lowered the flute, he

saw that the nun had fallen asleep.

It was almost dark. As if to respond to the call of the flute, a

cicada began its song nearby, and gradually others joined. He

listened for a while, feeling mournful and unhappy.

Then he raised the flute to his lips again and played to the

cicadas. He played “Twilight Cicadas” for them, and as they

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141

seemed to like that, he also played “Walking Among Cherry

Blossoms,” and “Wild Geese Departing,” and “Rain Falling on

my Hut.” As he played, he thought of his wife Tamako dancing

about the courtyard with their infant son. He had a sudden

fear that he might not survive this journey to see them again

and resolved if he did, he would try to be a better husband and

father.

As always, the music eased his black thoughts, and when the

last song was done, he sighed and with a bow, he laid the pre-

cious flute on the mat before the sleeping nun. Then he rose.

Ribata’s voice startled him. “You are troubled.”

He stood in the dark, waiting.

“I think you play the flute to find the way out of your trou-

bles,” she told him.

“Yes,” he admitted, awed by her perception. “I’m not very

good, because I don’t concentrate on technique but only on the

sounds and my thoughts. How did you know?”

In the faint light remaining, he could see that her eyes were

open now and rested on him. “The flute told me.”

“I want to do better,” he said humbly, and, saying it, he knew

he meant more than flute playing.

He waited a long time, but she made no other comment.

Finally he bowed. “I have been a nuisance,” he said. “Please for-

give me. Thank you for allowing me to play this magnificent

flute. I shall always remember it.” He turned to go.

“Take it with you,” she said.

He stopped, appalled. “No. I couldn’t. Not that flute. I’m not

worthy and—”

“Take it,” she said again.

“You don’t understand. I could not care for it properly. It

might get lost or broken. Where I am going there is . . . unrest,

perhaps danger.”

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“I know. Take it. You can return it to me when you have

done what you came to do.” And silently, she rose and slipped

past him with a mere whisper of her robe.

He looked after her, dazed with wonder, until she passed

across the bridge, her white robe a brief glimmer against the

black mass of trees—a pale insubstantial ghost returning to the

darkness. Only the flute remained, a tangible link to the mystery

of her past, and perhaps to that of Kumo, and his grandmother,

and of Prince Okisada who had died, or been murdered, for his

own past.

Akitada went back, took up the flute, and put it tenderly

into his sleeve. Then he left the garden in search of food and a

place to sleep.

◆

Wherever Inspector Osawa would be bedding down, the con-

vict Taketsuna could only hope for a dry corner among the ser-

vants and horses. It was fully dark now, and no one seemed

about. Lights glimmered from the residence, and torches spread

a reddish glow over the stable yard.

As Akitada approached the stockade enclosing the stables,

kitchens, storehouses, and servants’ quarters, he heard the

crunch of hooves on gravel and the creaking of leather. A mo-

ment later a horseman passed him. Even in the dark, Akitada

could see that both animal and man drooped with fatigue. For

a moment, he thought the governor had sent someone after

them, but when he had followed the rider through the open

gate, he found him talking to one of the grooms. Apparently the

rider had come from some other Kumo holding with a report

for his master.

“Rough journey, Kita?” asked the groom.

The other man slid off his horse wearily. His voice was

indistinct with exhaustion, but Akitada caught the phrases

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143

“pack train to the coast,” “bad mountain roads,” and a place

name: “Aikawa.”

“Why not rest first?” offered the groom.

The rider shook his head and mumbled something Akitada

could not hear.

“A fire? What a turn-up!” the groom commented. “The mas-

ter’ll be up to check for certain now.”

They parted, the new arrival in direction of the residence,

and the groom with the horse toward the stables. Akitada fol-

lowed the groom.

Perhaps because of preoccupation or the noise of the

horse’s hooves on the gravel, the groom took no notice of Aki-

tada. He led the tired animal into a fenced pen next to the sta-

ble and began to feed and water it and rub it down. The

enclosure already held their mounts and others. As the groom

seemed occupied for a while, Akitada decided to take a look in

the stable.

He opened the heavy double door just enough to slip in—

and stopped in amazement. It was a large, open hall, very clean

and well lit by torches attached to the support beams. One

whole length of the stable was taken up by a raised dais, the

other by fodder, saddles, bridles, and assorted armor—helmets

and breastplates, bows and arrows and swords. On the dais

stood ten or twelve superb horses, dozing, feeding, drinking, or

being brushed by an attendant. Each animal was of a different

color or marking, each was held only by a thick straw rope

which passed under its belly and was tied to a large metal ring

on a ceiling beam to allow it maximum comfort of movement

within its space, and each seemed to have its own attendant sit-

ting close by or tending to his chores.

Akitada loved horses and had never seen so many superb

ones in one stable. The grooms smiled and nodded as he passed

slowly, admiring their charges. Several of the great men in the

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capital were also horse fanciers, but few could claim such a col-

lection. It must be worth a fortune.

He was about to speak to one of the grooms when a heavy

hand fell on his shoulder. A squat, burly fellow, wearing an

old hunting jacket and plain trousers pushed into boots, stood

behind him. The head groom?

He eyed Akitada suspiciously. “Who are you and what do

you want?”

Akitada gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry to trouble any-

one. I am Taketsuna and came today with Inspector Osawa. We

have been working late in the main house, and I can’t seem to find

my way about. I thought perhaps I was supposed to sleep here.”

“In the stable?” The head groom looked him up and down.

What he saw seemed to reassure him a little, but he remained

hostile. “We don’t like strangers snooping. The guest quarters

are over there.” He pointed in the direction of a low dark build-

ing Akitada had passed near the gate.

Akitada hung his head humbly. “I’m not a guest. I’m a

convict.”

Surprisingly, this information improved the groom’s attitude.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” he cried. “All of us here are con-

victs, or former convicts, or the sons and daughters of convicts.”

Akitada’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean it!”

The groom grinned and slapped his shoulder. “Just arrived

on Sadoshima? Cheer up! Life’s not over. You can live quite

well here if you serve the right master. Now, our master only

employs convicts. Says they’re grateful to be treated like humans

and work twice as hard. And he’s right. We’d all die for him.”

“He must be a good master,” Akitada said in a wistful tone.

He was surprised by the constant praise heaped on Kumo. In his

experience, wealthy and powerful men rarely earned such ven-

eration from their servants.

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145

“He’s a saint. Better than anyone you’d find on the mainland

or in the capital.”

Akitada hung his head again. “You’re lucky. I’ve had nothing

but beatings and little to eat since I set foot on this island six

days ago.”

The groom narrowed his eyes and stepped closer to peer at

Akitada’s head, where the scabs and bruises from the beating

Genzo and his partner had given him were still visible. “Is that

how you got those?”

Akitada nodded. When he lifted his sleeve to show the pur-

plish bruises left by his fall from the horse that day, the groom

sucked in his breath. “You poor bastard.” He patted Akitada’s

back sympathetically. “Well, at least we can look after you while

you’re here. I’m Yume, the head groom, by the way.” They

bowed to each other. “How about sharing my quarters while

you’re here?”

“That’s very good of you, Yume. Are you sure it’s permitted?”

“Of course. Have you had your evening rice?”

“Well, no. I missed it. Working late.”

“Bastards!” growled the groom. “Come along. We’ll get you

something in the kitchen.”

The kitchen was a place of good smells, and Akitada was

ravenously hungry by now. The groom had eaten earlier, but to

be companionable he joined his new acquaintance in a bowl of

noodle soup.

“Good, isn’t it?” he said.

Drinking the last drop, Akitada nodded, smacked his lips,

and looked hungrily toward the large iron kettle suspended over

the fire. The soup had been thick with succulent noodles and

tasty bits of fish and vegetables. Kumo’s people ate well.

Yume laughed and got up to get him a refill. The cook, a fat

man who had lost a leg but moved with surprising agility about

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the kitchen on his crutch, was pleased and gave Akitada a nod.

It was a comfortable place to live and work. Akitada thought

that Seimei would have had a saying for it: In a rich man’s house

there are no lean dogs.

“You look strong,” Yume said. “Maybe you could work for

the master, too. Trouble is, there’s no opening here, but the mas-

ter always needs good men at the mines. If you don’t mind

roughing it a bit, it’d be worth a try.”

Akitada shook his head. “I met a little guy with running

sores on his arms and knees from working the mines. They say

lots of prisoners die or come out crippled for life.”

“See the cook? He lost his leg in a rock slide. The difference

is the master looks after his people.”

“Really? Where exactly are your master’s mines?”

“Near Aikawa. Why don’t you talk to Kita? He’s the mine

foreman. Maybe he’ll take you on to keep records.”

Akitada shook his head and sighed. “It sounds tempting, but

I’d never be allowed to leave my present place. Especially not

now when we’re just starting an inspection tour.”

The talk turned to horses. Kumo’s had been brought over

from the mainland about a year ago. The high constable had

sent an agent to purchase the finest animals anywhere at what-

ever cost. He planned to breed superior horses in Sadoshima.

“He loves hunting and fighting on the back of a horse. We often

have races,” Yume informed Akitada proudly.

When the cook finished his chores, he came to join them,

bearing a flask of warm wine. Though he had suffered his crip-

pling injury in one of Kumo’s silver mines, he also spoke of his

master with great affection. Urged by Akitada, he talked about

working conditions for miners. He seemed to take the hardships

lightly, stressing instead the master’s kindness and certain

amenities. “There’s foreign women there. Rough-looking bitches

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147

and not much to talk to, but brother, do they give you a good

time. In fact, there was one . . .” A dreamy look came to his face

and his voice trailed off.

When Akitada raised the subject of the murder of the Second

Prince, Yume and the cook looked at each other. “That was a

funny thing,” said the cook. “Why would the governor’s son go kill

the prince? You would’ve thought he’d poison the master instead.”

“Why?” asked Akitada, who could guess the answer.

“Because that stuck-up tyrant hates our master. Why, they

had such a fight we thought he’d show up with his soldiers

and arrest him. We were ready, but somebody must’ve warned

Mutobe off and he’s minded his manners since. And now his

own son’s in jail. We’ll soon be rid of him for good.” He grinned

with satisfaction.

That confirmed what Mutobe had told Akitada. He asked,

“Were your master and the prince close?”

Yume said, “Of course. The Second Prince used to come

here all the time. He and the old master were friends. After the

old master died, the prince and the young master’d ride out

hunting with kites. People said they were like father and son.

Some even said the prince would be recalled and become

emperor, and then he’d make the master his chancellor. But

that’s just silly talk, I think.”

The cook smirked. “That’s because the fools think the

prince was sleeping with the master’s mother.”

Yume said, “Don’t go spreading those lies. Besides, you and

I know better, don’t we?”

They cook guffawed and nodded.

“Oh, come,” urged Akitada, raising his cup. “I love a good

story, even if there’s no truth to it.”

But Yume shook his head. “It’s just silly talk. Nothing in it,

believe me.”

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And then the cook made the most puzzling remark of the

evening. “You know, the way the prince died reminds me of that

time they thought I’d poisoned him.”

Akitada was so taken aback that he stared at the cook. “How

was that?”

The cook grinned. “Oh, he had this hobby. Liked to fix his

own dishes. Well, one day he got really ill at a banquet. I was

frightened out of my wits, I tell you, but it turned out he’d eaten something before the banquet.”

Yume nodded. “One of the house servants saw it. The prince

started choking, and then his chopsticks dropped from his fin-

gers and he fell down like dead. His eyes were open, but he

couldn’t talk or move his limbs. They thought he was dying,

but after a while he came around and acted as if nothing had

happened.”

The cook said, “Everybody blamed me till it turned out

he’d cooked up something for himself. Probably poisonous

mushrooms.”

That night Akitada retired more confused than ever.

Before slipping under Yume’s redolent quilts, he took the

flute from his sleeve, wrapped it carefully into his outer robe,

and placed the roll under his head.

◆

It was not until the following morning that Akitada recalled his

appointment with Kumo’s secretary. Shiba had promised to

send someone for him the night before. Nobody had come, but

perhaps Akitada had missed the summons—as he had missed

his evening rice—by playing the flute in the garden. He dressed

quickly in his blue scribe’s robe and packed his own gown and

the flute into his saddlebag.

The secretary greeted him with reserve and did not mention

their appointment.

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

149

“I hope,” Akitada told him, “that we did not miss each other

last night. I was late returning to the servants’ quarters.”

“No, no,” Shiba said quickly. “Do not concern yourself. I had

urgent business to attend to. This is a rather busy time for me.

Regrettable. Especially since you are to leave today. Perhaps

next time?”

It did not sound very convincing, but Akitada nodded and

went to his desk. Genzo had not arrived yet but left a stack of

last night’s copies.

Akitada had little interest in Genzo’s work, or his own, for

that matter. All of it was just a subterfuge to meet Kumo. If

Kumo had been informed about the prisoner Taketsuna and his

background, he had given no indication of it. But Akitada had

learned enough. Kumo’s leading an uprising seemed less likely

than he had feared. The governor had painted a villainous

image of the high constable, but the man who rescued con-

victs from unbearable working conditions, trained them, and

then treated them with generosity and respect was surely no vil-

lain. In Akitada’s view such goodness could hardly coexist

with a desire for bloody vengeance against the emperor. In fact,

Akitada began to doubt Mutobe, an unpleasant state of mind

comparable to feeling the earth shift during an earthquake.

Kumo seemed to have done his best to ease suffering, while

Mutobe apparently turned a blind eye to the abuse of prisoners

by guards and police alike.

But he was puzzled by the change in Shiba’s manner. Last

night the secretary had been friendly and eager for news of

the capital, yet today his greeting had been cool, distant, and

nervous, as if Akitada had suddenly become an undesirable ac-

quaintance. What had happened? Akitada briefly considered his

meeting with Kumo’s senile grandmother, but what was in that?

Perhaps the change had nothing to do with him, but instead

with the man from Aikawa bringing some bad news. A fire?

150

I . J . P a r k e r

Akitada sighed and looked at Genzo’s copies. They were