Текст книги "Death on an Autumn River "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter Nineteen

The Pirate Ship

Hanae would not stop screaming, and Tora jerked into partial wakefulness:  he lay on strange and uncomfortable bedding and the screaming continued.

Opening his eyes on darkness, he made out the chinks of a door.  The smell and touch of his rough bedding registered.  He was in the Hostel of the Flying Cranes, and there was a real woman screaming outside his door.

He cursed and scrambled up.  At the door, he remembered the demon and hesitated with his hand on the bar, but another blood-curdling scream overcame his fear.  He lifted the bar, flung the door open, and looked out at the moonlit night.

The screams came from the shack near the back fence.  He could just make out a shadowy figure struggling with a smaller one.  The smaller one was a woman.  Some brute trying to rape her?  With a shout Tora rushed to the rescue.

The man was big.  He let go of the female, who scurried away, and turned to Tora with a welcoming smile.  The smile was unexpected, and Tora almost stopped, but it was already too late.  Dark figures rose up beside him, behind him, surrounding him as if they had sprung from the earth.  His last thought was that he had walked into a whole gathering of demons.  A short, sharp pain to the back of his head wiped out any other reflections.

*

He came half-awake to swaying and bobbing motions.  He was wet, and there were strange noises, scraping of wood, splashing of water, rhythmic breathing.  The back of his head hurt abominably, and he turned it a little.  Nausea rose. He retched, then vomited and vomited again.  This woke him completely.  Still retching, he tried to sit up and failed because he was trussed up tightly, his feet tied together and his arms caught under loops of rope that passed around his chest.  Above him was a dark and hazy sky.  It was dawn or dusk—he did not know which– and when he moved his sore head a little, he made out the backs of four men rowing.  They were in a boat, and all around was gray mist and black water.

It made no sense.

The boat hit a larger wave, rose up and plunged back down, and Tora’s head bounced against the bottom of the boat with such force that he passed out again.

He came round next because he was being manhandled into an upright position.  He heard grunts and curses and felt rough hands on his body.  Someone above him shouted, “Hurry up, you lazy bastards.”

He was still tied up but instinctively kicked out against the men who had hold of him.  There were more curses and ringing slap to his head that made him see stars where there should not have been any, and then the bonds tightened around his chest, the hands fell away, and he rose up into the air, pulled by a rope attached to his back.  It was daylight.  As he swung, he saw first the side of a ship and then the open water and men in a boat below.  And when he looked up, there were, against the pale sky, the outlines of dark heads peering down at him.  Like a pendulum, he swung and rose, sometimes out over the angry waves below him, sometimes painfully against the rough timbers of the ship’s bow.

They dragged him over the side and let him drop.  He vomited again and was kicked in the chest.  Some time passed in a haze of misery.  His face was raw from  scraping against the ship, his head hurt like blazes, and he was dizzy.  The kick to his chest might have broken a rib, he thought.  There was an excruciating stab of pain whenever the ship rolled or he took a deep breath.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated on taking shallow breaths and waited, feeling wretched.  And always, there was the question:  Why was he here?  What did they want with him?

Ship’s noises.  Men running about, shouting. Things like “Pull hard,”  “Make fast,”  “Heave”.  Bare legs and feet scampered past his bleary eyes.  He heard rattling, creaking, heavy breathing, curses, and a wet flapping sound.  The wooden boards he lay on shifted, rose, and fell, and the rolling of the ship made him sick again.

After several more bouts of vomiting, he found that the rushing about had stopped.  He turned his head to look.  He was lying amidships near the railing.  Across from him was a roofed cabin, and above two huge dark sails rose into the blue sky.  Ropes fastened these to the front, back, and sides of the ship.  The flapping sound came from these sails.  Up ahead, four men stood in line, pushing long oars.  As he looked at them, one began a rhythmic chant, hai, hai, hai, hai, with every stroke of the long oar.  The others joined in one by one.  The ship moved less sluggishly and with more purpose.

They were on their way.  The ship was taking him away from land, from help, from any chance of being rescued or escaping.  Already, the huge sails were filling as they caught a breeze.

He struggled into a more upright position and twisted his body to look back.  A fierce pain in his side made him gasp and close his eyes.  When the pain ebbed a little, he peered through the railing.  He was not in a good place for seeing the land, and he dared not twist any more.  As it was, he saw a sliver of the coast with  some houses, and a ship or two.  It was not enough to know where he was, but he guessed the houses belonged to Kawajiri or a neighboring village.

He had been knocked out and abducted by the men on this ship.  If there was any mercy in his situation, it was the fact that they were much too busy to bother with him.  But this was a temporary relief.  In the moments of the ship’s departure, as the men had been running about on deck, he had seen a writhing dragon tattooed on one of the sturdy thighs.

It seemed a lot of trouble to go to for revenge.

Tora was reasonably sure he was on board a pirate ship.  Dragon Tattoo would see to it that he could not talk himself out of his present dilemma by offering to become a pirate.  He searched his mind for the man’s name.  Toji?  No, Tojo.  At least that was the name the bastard had given at the hostel.

Tora scooted his bound body slowly and painfully against the side of the ship and leaned against the boards.

Nausea returned and dizziness joined it.  Not seasickness, he thought, but the knock on his head.  The back of his skull hurt badly enough to signal a crack.  And there was blood, too.  He could smell it.  It had soaked into the back of shirt and jacket and stiffened.  The rest of him was wet.  They must have dragged him through water to get him into the boat.

They had taken his sword.  No surprise there, but he had liked that weapon. It was short, but it had fit his hand perfectly, and its weight had been light enough for some clever wrist work.  He mourned his sword for a while, breathed carefully, and watched the sailors at their work.  Most seemed his own age, with some youngsters mixed in.  Altogether, he counted eighteen men and boys, plus the helmsman.  There might be more in the cabin and below deck, but he doubted it.  The ship was quite large and had two masts with huge square sails.  The helmsman at the rudder, issuing orders was probably the captain.

They were leaving the port of Kawajiri and heading out into the Bay of Naniwa—he assumed that was where they were—and this appeared to be tricky work.  Where were they headed?  The farther they got from the coast, the less likely it was that he could escape.  He strained against his bonds.  In vain.  It was already too late.  If and when they made landfall and he escaped, it would take him many days to return to Naniwa.

What would his master do?  Would he worry and put himself in danger to find him?  Of course, he would.

Bitter recriminations occupied him next: How could he have been so careless?  That screaming female had been a decoy to lure him out of his room, and he had fallen for it like a mere novice.  But why all this effort?  It did not make sense that Dragon Tattoo would carry his revenge this far and get his shipmates to help him.  Why not just beat him up or kill him behind the hostel?

He found no answer and turned his mind to how they had worked it.  Kunimitsu must have sold him out.  Maybe Kunimitsu had offered him up to Dragon Tattoo as an apology for having cheated him at dice.  They had all been scared enough of the bastard.  And most likely they had been scared because they had known that Dragon Tattoo was one of the pirates, and his companions would return with him to take care of Kunimitsu and his buddies. Add that they could not call on the police to protect them because of the gambling.  It was likely that Kunimitsu had had dealings with pirates before.

At this point Tora dozed off.

He woke to a sudden, sharp pain to his injured chest and roared.  Dragon Tattoo loomed above him, his foot still in the air.  He grinned malevolently.  The bastard had kicked him.  Tora sucked in his breath and steeled himself for more.  The pirate’s grin was spoiled by a fresh gap in his front teeth.  Tora took some satisfaction from that.

But no other blows fell.

“What the hell did you do to me?” Tora croaked.

“It’s not what I did, scum.  It’s what I’m going do,” said Dragon Tattoo, baring his missing teeth again.  “You’ll be talking to my chief, and when he’s done with you, you die.”

“Why?  What’s going on?  And where are we going?”

“None of your business.”  Dragon Tattoo spat in Tora’s face and walked away.

Rubbing the spittle off on his shoulder, Tora considered.  The chief was not the captain and did not appear to be on the ship.  So he was being taken to some pirate stronghold or hideout.  Perhaps there was still some hope of talking himself out of this fix.  Dragon Tattoo’s threat he put from his mind.  There was time to deal with him later.  He closed his eyes again.

He woke with a terrible thirst.  This time, he had lost all sense of time.  The sun was high, and he was baking like a fish on a griddle.  At the corner of the cabin, four pirates were throwing dice.  Evidently, gambling was their main occupation when they weren’t asleep or working.

He croaked, “How about some water?”

They turned their heads and stared at him.  One of them muttered something.  They guffawed and went back to their game.

“Oh, come on!  Just a drink of water.  I’m burning up here.”

One of them got up, walked over to the side of the ship and dropped a pail on a rope into the sea.  Bringing it back up, he carried it to Tora and flung the contents over him.  “Wet enough for you, spy?”  he asked.

The others guffawed some more.

The water cooled Tora’s burning skin for a moment, but the little that got into his parched mouth made his thirst worse, and his skin began to itch.

Spy?

Where did they get the idea he was a spy?  He thought back and could not remember saying or doing anything that would have given his purpose away.

Nothing much happened the rest of the day.  They ignored him.  His thoughts went to Seimei and he grieved.  Seimei would be disappointed in him, but he would tell him, “Don’t be afraid to mend your faults.”  How did you mend this fault?

He tried to beg for water one more time when a different sailor walked past and got another kick for his troubles.  In the afternoon, clouds moved in, and a sharp wind sprang up.  It got cold very quickly.  The big sails flapped and the masts creaked.  Tora shivered.

Within an hour or so, the sky had turned dark, lightning tore across it, and the wind buffeted the sails, and caused turbulent waves.  The ship plunged and rose, plunged and rose.  Thunder rolled.

The pirates did not seem too concerned, and Tora decided that they knew what they were doing.  He thought about rain.  Surely there would be rain.  Blessed rain.  He was utterly parched and miserable.  But the rain held off, and the wind grew stronger.  The day turned into a long night.

When the rolling of the ship increased, Tora pushed himself against the railing and held on with the fingers of one hand. The movement and strain hurt his damaged rib, so he tried to find a more comfortable position by moving his arms to ease the pressure of the rope.  This proved in vain on his right side, but on the left, a knot allowed his wrist and hand enough room to twist a little. Encouraged, he continued to work at stretching and shifting the loops around his chest.  It occurred to him that he might push the rope lower, toward his waist, and gain some extra room.  He looked around and saw a large metal ring attached to the deck.  It probably served to fasten something or other but was not in use and only a couple of feet away.  Lying down, he used his legs to slide his back on top of the ring.  When the ring caught against the rope that passed around his back and chest, he started pushing hard.

The heart of the storm came up fast, and all hell broke loose on the ship.  The pirates rushed about; sails flapped as men moved the great horizontal beams that held the canvas spread out to lessen and deflect the force of the wind against them.  It took three men to hold and move the rudder, and the ship tossed about, rolled, and rose to unimaginable heights, only to drop into precipitous depths over and over again.

Tora’s work became immeasurably harder.  He kept sliding and had no way of controlling this.  Besides, his struggles at pushing the rope down were extremely painful, and he seemed to be making things worse.  He was sweating, yet he shivered in the cold wind.  Spray came over the sides.  He was afraid the rope would tighten further when it got wet, and so he tried to push harder and faster.  All the while, he kept an eye on the sailors and made himself as small as he could, afraid that they would stop him.

But there was little chance of that.  They were busy reefing the sails and tying things down.  Feet stepped on him, stumbled over him, kicked him here and there, but they paid him no other attention.

It got dark very quickly—a good thing, because they could not see what he was doing, but the darkness added to his fear.  If the ship went down, he would not be able to save himself.

The rain finally came in great gusts.  He let it fall into his open mouth, tried to soak it up with his skin.  Blessed rain. And he finally felt the rope begin to give a little.  His rib cage protested briefly and very painfully, but then the strain shifted lower, to his flat belly, and he had a little room to twist and turn his left arm.

This was still a far cry from being able to extricate it, but further painful maneuvers, including rolling back and forth on the wet deck, loosened the rope loops some more, and he freed first his upper arm and then, with a final excruciating effort, his elbow.  The rest was easy, but he was by then utterly worn out from pain and effort. He lay exhausted, flexing his free hand.

The storm did not rest.  Lines snapped, a sail came loose and tore, the roof of the cabin came off, piece by life-threatening piece hurling about the deck and overboard.  Then one of the masts cracked and slowly leaned, tilting the ship.

Tora slid hard against the railing and held on with his free hand.  The sea washed over him, and he pulled himself up to catch a breath, muttering a prayer under his breath.  Only a short while ago, he would have been lost, bound hand and foot and washed over the side.

Suddenly he was not alone.  One of the pirates had slid down, hit the rail beside him, and started to go over the side.  Instinctively, Tora let go and grabbed the man.  For a moment, their lives hung in the balance.  The next roll of the ship would toss them both overboard.

But the sailor, having both arms free, caught himself and clasped the railing, then pulled them both back from the brink.  They stood, staring at each other, and Tora released him.  They would come now and tie him up again, he thought.  All that effort and pain for nothing and he would still drown in the end.

The sailor suddenly pulled a knife, and Tora jerked away and fell.  Never mind drowning, he thought, lying on the wet deck, the knife will be quicker.  But the man bent to his feet, and Tora felt those bonds parting.  Then he cut the rope that still held his right arm.  When he was done and Tora was free, he turned away and plunged back into the driving rain where the others were using axes to cut loose the broken mast.

Tora sat against the side and held on.  The storm was still fully upon them and water came from all sides.  It was impossible to tell what was rain and what sea.  Waves washed across the deck, and once, as the ship pitched hard, he almost tumbled over the side again.

While lightning flashed and thunder rolled, and ever larger seas swamped the ship, Tora thought of his family, and how he loved his sweet, dainty wife Hanae with every fiber of his being.  She had been the one to make sacrifices to be with him and she had given him his son Yuki.  He felt a fierce pride that Yuki had attacked the armed intruders.  The love and the courage of that act!  If he died in this storm, he would lie lost and unburied among the shells and fishes.  They would mourn him for years, hoping in vain that he might return some day.  He wept at the pity of this, and then he prayed to the Buddha and clutched the railing with icy fingers.

But the storm abated at last, and dawn came, and with its silver light, a shout from one of the pirates.  Tora turned his head and looked around blearily.  He saw an island, a mere dark silhouette against the gray of the sea and the paling sky.  Beyond, vague shadows might be other islands.  A gull circled overhead and gave a shrill cry, and the pirates burst into shouts and happy laughter.  They had reached home.

Tora sighed.  He doubted he had much to be happy about.

Chapter Twenty

The Lady of the River Mansion

Having made up his mind to make one more attempt at solving the mystery of the girl with the amulet, Akitada walked to the Eguchi post station where he rented a horse and got directions to the River Mansion.  On an impulse, he said to the groom, “Do you know anything about the lady who resides there?”

The groom eyed Akitada with an impudent grin.  “The lady’s choosy, but it may be your lucky day, sir.”

Akitada flushed with anger but decided to let it pass.  He was in a den of iniquity, and one could hardly expect either good morals or good manners from the local people.  Still, whoever lived in the River Mansion clearly had a reputation.

The ride was short and pleasant, in spite of the increasing clouds.  His mood improved, and he soon found himself at an elaborate blue-tiled gate decorated with golden dragons.  Beyond rose trees and more blue-tiled roofs.  Birds sang, and through the trees beside the road he could see the green Yodo River.

What sort of person lived in this near-paradisal state?  Was it really a lustful princess who scoured the countryside for handsome young men to take into her bed?  Akitada smiled.  The ludicrous tale was typical of Tora.  When it came to sexual exploits or scandalous behavior of the nobility, Tora was very gullible, and this story had both.

He called out, and one wing of the great gate swung open.  He rode in under its elaborate roof trimmed with gilded fretwork and found himself in a large courtyard covered with white gravel.  Before him stood a lovely building, a smaller version of Chancellor Michinaga’s great Phoenix Hall, though it was by no means so very small, being more than twice the size of the Sugawara residence.

A servant took his horse.  Another servant asked his name.

“Sugawara,” said Akitada.  “Special investigator for the Minister of the Right.  I would like to speak to the majordomo.”  He would soon have some answers, he thought.  A senior servant could tell him the owner’s name and who was in residence, and he would also know about visits from young women belonging to the Eguchi brothels.

“We have a betto, sir,” the servant said.  “Betto Kakuan.”

A monk?  How very proper!  “Very well, Kakuan, then.”

The servant took him up the wide stairs and into an extraordinary room.  The first impression was of color, movement, and ornament.  The carved columns and the ceiling were painted and decorated with carvings.  The dais had a backdrop of water scenes painted on sliding doors, and deep blue and green brocade cushions lay on its mirror-smooth floor.  The other walls, lying in the shadows, displayed paintings on hanging scrolls.  It was a noble, even a princely abode.  Tora’s imperial princess came to his mind again.

As he waited, he walked around, looking in astonishment at the carvings on the columns and ceiling.  These were of water creatures: fish, crabs, cranes, ducks, and gulls, while the paintings on the paper-covered doors depicted scaly fish jumping in waves, a pair of ducks swimming among reeds, koi splashing in a small pond, a pair of cranes grooming their feathers on the shore, and—on the center panel—a gorgeous dragon rising from a stormy sea, all serpentine contortions and writhing scales, grasping talons and snapping jaws.  The paintings had been done with consummate artistry, and no doubt had cost a great deal of money.  He turned to examine the hanging scrolls, when a woman’s voice asked, “Do you like my little hermitage, my Lord?”

He swung around.  A figure materialized from the shadows, a lady, small of stature and enveloped in stiffened silk gowns of peculiar shades of blues and greens.  He took her for an apparition at first, so silently had she entered and so odd was her appearance.

A tinkling laugh acknowledged his stupefaction.  She glided closer across the floor, a painted fan held to her face.  Her eyes seemed unusually large, but when she stood before him, he saw she had outlined them with black paint, and the effect was misleading.  He also decided that her movements were ponderous rather than ethereal, and found himself in a quandary.

He had disbelieved Tora’s tale of the aging imperial princess and had doubted some of the other stories.  Now he did not know how to address this female.  Formalities had not been on his mind.  He had come to ask questions of a majordomo or some other senior retainer and not of the owner of the mansion.  More disturbing perhaps, she was alone with him.  Where were her attendants?

He covered his embarrassment by making her a deep bow.  “My name is Sugawara, my Lady.  We are not acquainted, I’m afraid.  I hope I have not intruded rudely on your seclusion?”

Again that disconcerting tinkling laugh.  He thought resentfully that she was too old for it, and wondered again at the colors of her gowns, combinations never seen at court or elsewhere.  Those light blues were more commonly worn by men, and here they were combined with greens.  All the women he had seen had preferred to use green with rosy reds, or the deeper reds of autumn maples, or—if they were more mature ladies—browns.  Then he realized that the diaphanous silks were meant to resemble water.  Of course: the River Mansion.  The paintings and carvings, and even the appearance of its owner symbolized the watery realm.

She waved a hand toward the dais and its cushions.  “Please, let us sit and converse.  Company is welcome in my solitude.”

He followed her up to the dais where she extended a hand so he could help her lower herself onto a cushion.  Her hand was warm, soft, and rather fleshy and hung on to his heavily as she sat down.  He realized that she must be fat under all those stiff gowns.  He seated himself on the cushion next to hers and searched for a way to learn her name.

She giggled again.  The eyes above the fan twinkled with amusement.  “How old are you, my Lord?”

Taken aback, he said, “I’m in my thirty-fifth year, my Lady.”

“Hmm.  Not so young any longer.  And certainly no longer brimming with vigor either.”

If she was indeed an imperial princess, he could hardly object to her teasing, no matter how rude.  He decided to ignore her flirtatious comments and go to the heart of the matter.  “I’m investigating a death in this area, and came to ask some questions of your staff.  Your servant must have misunderstood.”

The painted moth eyebrows rose.  “How dull you are.  Here I am, in one of my most fetching costumes, and you ask to speak to my servants.  Don’t they teach gentlemen manners these days?”

He bowed.  “My deepest apologies, my Lady.  Your gracious reception has overwhelmed me.”

She tittered, switched the fan to her left hand and reached out with her right to touch his eyebrow.  He managed barely not to flinch away.  A wave of perfume enveloped him.

“Such fierce brows.  Such a fierce man,” she murmured.  “Fierce men have always appealed to the dragon race.  Did you know that I have the blood of the dragon kings in me?”  The finger traced his cheek and touched his lips.

He could not speak, did not know what to do.  The thought flashed across his mind that Tora’s tale had been all too true, and that this female had taken it into her mind to seduce him.  Worse, if she was in fact an imperial princess, he knew of no way to refuse her without causing an offense that could cost him his career.

“You know the story of the Dragon King’s daughter, don’t you?” she went on, letting her finger wander down his neck, pulling playfully at his collar and stroking his Adam’s apple.

He said hoarsely, “In the Lotus sutra, the Princess Otohime proved that even a woman can attain Buddhahood.”

“Ah, yes.  A woman may do anything she wishes, even gain Buddhahood.  Do you believe that?”  Her hand rested on his chest, exerting a slight pressure.

Akitada found it hard to breathe normally. “When I look at your ladyship, I find it easy to believe.”

She laughed softly.  “Better.  But I really meant the tale about the daughter of the dragon king arising from the depths of the sea to find herself a human lover.”

The hand had slipped lower, past his sash, and had come to rest on his thigh, near his groin.  He knew he was flushing deeply.  He was also angrily aware that he could not control his body or avoid the problem any longer.  Either he submitted or he offended.  He reached for her hand—a shocking liberty with any woman of his class—and raised it to his forehead before placing it back on her skirt.  “Fortunate human,” he said softly.  “But he must have faced a terrible dilemma.”

Her eyes narrowed over her fan.  “How so?”

“To be offered the love of a divine creature would surely completely unman the average human male.”

The frown faded.  She giggled.  “But her choice was not an average man,” she said, leaning close again.  “Are you an average man, my Lord?”

“Very average, I’m afraid.  A mere lower-level official with a wife and a small daughter.”

She withdrew with a little sigh.  “Ah!” she said.  “That is a great pity.”  She regarded him silently for a long moment while he cringed inwardly.  “What did you want to know?”

The question was unexpected and Akitada gulped before saying,  “I came for information about a young woman who drowned in the river two weeks ago.  I was on my way to Naniwa on the tenth day of this month when my boat encountered the body below your mansion.  The boatmen fished her out and took her to Eguchi.  People there said that she was a courtesan who had committed suicide.  But she did not look old enough to be in that trade, and her death was not investigated properly.  I have not been able to get her out of my mind and came to see if anyone here might know her.”

He paused, unable to express the depth of his feelings about the dead girl.  In the end, he said only,  “She was very young.”  The grief and anger he felt on her behalf was largely due to her youth and the fact that he was now the father of a girl.  The cruel unfairness that a child should have suffered such a fate and encountered death before tasting much of life twisted his heart.  He looked at this woman of high rank who sat there in her eccentric finery and resented her.  The dead girl had not been privileged and protected; she had been bartered off to be used by men who felt no pity, men who were of his own class and of this woman’s.

He had her whole attention now.  She was either shocked or frightened and had  lowered her fan.  Yes, he thought with satisfaction, she is no longer young.  The smooth round face with its tiny painted mouth was covered thickly with white paste, but around the jaw line, the flesh sagged in an unattractive way, and two deep lines ran from the nostrils to the corners of her mouth.  The contrast between her and the beautiful dead child was poignant.

She saw him staring and raised her fan quickly.  “Wh-what did she look like?” she asked.

Akitada felt a small thrill of triumph.  So he had been right.  Something had happened here, and she was aware of it, perhaps had even known the girl personally.  “In Eguchi, they told me her name was Akogi,” he said, “and that she was in training in one of the houses but had not started working yet.  As I said, she was very young, fifteen years at most.  She was tall and already well developed, with very long, thick hair.  Her face was exceedingly beautiful.”  He searched his memory for other words to describe her.  “It was oval, but soft like a child’s.  Enchanting.  There was very little make-up, but the water may have washed that off.  She wore only a very thin silk undergown.”  He remembered and took the amulet from his sash.  “And this was tied around her neck.”

She took the amulet, glanced at it, and gave it back.  “Poor child,” she murmured, looking away.  “Poor child.”  For a moment every part of her figure seemed to sag.

“You’ve recognized it?  You know this girl?”

Her eyes returned to his.  She said angrily, “Surely you joke, sir. I do not know such women.  In any case, I have answered your questions.  You may leave.”

Akitada could only blame himself.  Even given his ignorance of her identity, he should have realized that she belonged to a family where matters such as prostitution were never mentioned in the women’s quarters.  He bowed deeply.  “Forgive me.  There was a chance that this child was not in the trade.  She looked as if she might have belonged to a good family.  The amulet suggested as much. I merely mentioned what I was told in town.”

Her manner softened somewhat.  “She did not belong here,” she said.  “All of our women are accounted for.  You must ask your questions elsewhere.”