Текст книги "Death on an Autumn River "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Six

A Sword in his Belly

They reached Naniwa at dusk.  Watamaro’s manner had changed.  He was still moderately courteous but cool.  As they walked to his warehouse, Tora leaning on Akitada while Saburo and Masaji tottered behind, Watamaro’s men surrounded them on all sides.  Escape was impossible.

They were prisoners.

At the warehouse, Watamaro took them to his office and gave orders to his men to stand watch.  Then he closed the door and turned.  “Please sit down.”  They all sat.  Watamaro’s eyes rested thoughtfully on Tora and Masaji.  “It seems we have a problem, my Lord.”

For a moment, Akitada was tempted to continue the pretense of ignorance, but then he nodded.  “You mean, you have a problem.  Perhaps you’d better tell me about your relationship with the pirates.”

“Ah, I see you guessed.  Very clever of you to make me think Tora had lost his memory.  The man with him works for me.  He knows he’s a dead man.”

Masaji prostrated himself with a wail.  Tora glared at Watamaro.  “He saved my life.  I won’t let you touch him.”

“Your words do you honor, Tora, but he belongs to me.”  Watamaro turned back to Akitada.  “I think two reasonable men can find a solution to this unfortunate situation.  I’ve come to have the greatest regard for you, not because of your birth and rank, but because I found you care about common people.  You will agree that’s a very rare commodity among the nobility.  Your feelings for the poor young girl who died in Eguchi impressed me.”

Akitada said coldly, “I hope my respect for life extends to all beings, both great and small.  Pirates and their masters have little respect for lives or property.”

Watamaro sighed.  “There’s nothing to be gained by anger.  I know this well enough because I’ve been angry most of my life.  The young girl you found could have been my sister.  We were poor, and she was very pretty.  Alas, the pretty daughters of the poor are unlucky.”

“Good or bad fortune may come to all people,” Akitada said.  “I’m sorry about your sister, but that doesn’t excuse your present activities.  You’ve become a very rich ship-owner through using both poor fishermen and the local authorities.  When you got greedy and enriched yourself further by engaging in piracy in addition to ordinary shipping, you lost the right to take this moral tone.”

Watamaro nodded.  “Fair enough, though I’ve brought prosperity to many poor people.  But let me make you a proposition.  I’m far richer and more powerful than either Lord Oga or the prefect.  You, on the other hand, have nothing but a house in the capital and a poorly paid position in the lower ranks of the administration.  Oh, yes.  I informed myself about you the moment I met you and realized why you had come.  I found you to be a capable and decent man.  I can use someone like you, and I’ll be far more generous than your current masters.  If you agree to help me, you would continue your present life but receive monthly retainers from me.  I would only contact you when I needed legal advice in righting an injustice.  I would not expect you to do anything illegal.  What do you say?”

Akitada flushed with anger.  “I’m not for sale.  It was you who sent two armed men to my home, wasn’t it?  They took the life of a man who had been like a father to me.”

Watamaro raised his hands.  “They didn’t intend harm.  It was an unfortunate accident.  I sent them, yes, but only to make you give up your investigation, nothing else.”

Silence fell.

Watamaro looked down at his folded hands.  When he looked up again, his eyes went over all of them and came to rest on Masaji.  “A pity,” he said heavily.  He looked suddenly old and sad.  “I hate shedding blood.”

Masaji scooted forward on his knees to clutch Tora.  Tora growled.  “You’re not touching him.”

Watamaro stood.  “You’ve recovered very quickly, Tora.  Perhaps it would be best if you gave me your sword.”  He held out his hand.

“The last man who took my sword is dead.”

Watamaro turned to Akitada.  “Tell him it’s hopeless.”

Akitada rose also. “It’s hopeless for you, Watamaro.  Your threats will make no difference.  I’m an imperial official with special powers.  If you lay a hand on me and my people, His Majesty will send an army to eradicate you and all your followers.  Their blood will be on your hands.  It will be much better for you to give yourself up now.”

Watamaro snorted.  “In the end, you spoiled aristocrats are all the same.  You think no one can touch you.  We’ll see about teaching you a lesson.”  He walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.  They heard the sound of a metal lock falling into place.

Tora muttered, “Honey in his mouth, but a sword in his belly.”  He got up, walked over to a bamboo stand, and swept the document boxes and papers from its shelves.  With his sword, he cut the vines which held it together.  The  shelves clattered to the floor, and Tora hefted two of the bamboo supports in his hand.  With a nod, he tossed one to Masaji.  “They’re a bit short, but strong and heavy.  Are you good at stick-fighting, Masaji?”

Masaji grinned.  “We fought with boat poles.”

Tora passed his sword to Akitada.  “You really ought to carry yours more, sir.”

Akitada nodded.  “I’m sorry I got you into this.  I counted ten men who brought us here.  There could be another ten already in the warehouse.”

Tora nodded at the door.  “We could break it down and rush them.”

“Much the best way,” agreed Saburo.  “I think I saw weapons among the goods stored outside.”

They looked at Akitada.  He nodded.

Saburo produced a pair of metal wires from his sleeve.  He inserted these into the locking mechanism, then looked over his shoulder at the others.  “Ready?”  When they joined him, he pushed and twisted.  The lock clicked.  Tora flung himself against the door.  It sprang open, and they fell upon two startled guards outside.

It had been a long time since Akitada had killed a man, and even then it had felt unnatural.  He raised Tora’s sword, the guard froze, and Tora growled, “Kill him!”Akitada locked eyes with the man.

The other guard, who tried to escape from Tora and Masaji with their bamboo staves, shouted, “They’re escaping.”

They heard steps and the clatter of arms outside.

Akitada’s guard lashed out with his own sword.  Akitada parried and shoved his blade into the man’s belly.  When he withdrew it, the man collapsed with a scream and rolled on the floor in agony.  Bile rose to Akitada’s mouth, but there was no time to be sick or to think about what he had done.

The large double doors to the outside flew open, and Watamaro’s men poured in.  The other way, stacks and mountains of stored goods rose nearly to the rafters.  Saburo was already climbing the nearest pile like a cat, shouting, “This way.”  They scrambled after him over crates, bundles, sacks, stacks of lumber, boxes, and sake barrels, up high to the dim reaches under the roof.  Loosely stacked goods shifted under their feet.  Akitada sent an avalanche of rice bags rolling toward their pursuers, barely catching himself with a jump to a stack of lumber.

The warehouse filled with armed men looking up at them.  Watamaro came and shouted, “Come down.  You’re trapped.  You’ll never fight your way out of this.”

They ignored him.  Saburo had found a hoard of weapons, enough to outfit a small army, it seemed.  He cut the ropes that tied them into bundles—the man seemed to have all sorts of tools on him—and tossed long swords to Akitada and Tora.  Masaji exchanged his piece of bamboo for a halberd.

Some of Watamaro’s men below started climbing.  Let them come, Akitada thought and realized that he was no longer sickened by having killed.  He had found his fighting spirit after all.

At that moment, the first arrow hit the beam above his head and stuck there, humming softly.

“Take cover,” yelled Akitada, diving behind a box.  Something gave under his feet, and he felt himself falling, sliding down with chests, bundles, and assorted sharp objects that seemed to have come alive.  Ten, fifteen feet below him crashes and cries of pain.  He scrambled wildly, reaching out with his free hand, when a fist grabbed the back of his robe and held on.

Tora.

“Thanks,” he gasped, found a foothold, and climbed away.  The “thwack-thwack” of arrows resumed.  There was another cry.  Watamaro’s archers were not very good marksmen, but there were many of them and the distance short.  Akitada and Tora found temporary safety behind a beam and surveyed the field.

Watamaro’s people had brought in more torches.  The floor of the warehouse was well lit.  Fortunately, the light did not reach the upper parts of the warehouse.  Akitada counted some twenty men below, all armed in some way, but none wearing armor.  Watamaro had not alerted the police, but he might have sent for the prefect.  They would be lost, if troops arrived before they got away.

“What now?” asked Tora.  “It’s a stand-off.”

“Not for long.” Akitada heard the bitterness in his voice.  “They are between us and the doors.  We’ll have to come down and charge through.”

Tora grunted.

Below, the men gathered around Watamaro for a conference.  Akitada looked for Saburo and Masaji.  Masaji huddled on a pile of lumber some twenty feet away.  He saw no sign of Saburo and worried for a moment, then remembered the man’s talents and looked up into the rafters.  Yes, there he crouched, peering down at them and raising a hand.

Tora moved impatiently.  “What good is waiting? You don’t expect help from anyone, do you?”

“No.”  For a moment, Akitada saw the dilemma with supernatural clarity.  The four of them against twenty, fighting in unfamiliar surroundings.  He was badly out of shape after years of government work sitting behind desks or in assemblies.  Tora and his companion had spent a night and a day of rowing a small boat in a large sea, and Saburo might be clever and good at throwing odd items through the air, but he could not hold his own in hand-to-hand combat.  This was most likely where they would lose their lives.  For a brief moment, the pain of never seeing Tamako and his little daughter again twisted his heart.

“All right.  Let’s go!” he shouted, gesturing their intention to the other two.  He grasped the sword firmly and took the shortest route down, jumping, slipping, sliding– hearing Tora following behind.  His feet touched solid ground.  Though he knew he was facing death, he felt good.

Watamaro’s men fell back until Watamaro shouted orders.  Then they came.  Two, three men at a time.  Even if Watamaro had wanted to deal with an imperial official more gently, the matter was now out of his hands.  This battle was to the death.  In the press of knives and swords coming at him, Akitada was oblivious to anything but the need to fight his way past them.

The long sword gave him reach over the weapons of the sailors and warehouse clerks, and he made bloody work of it.  An arrow whizzed past his ear and struck someone behind him.  He ignored the scream, slashed, cut, parried, twisted aside to avoid the slashing and cutting blades of the enemy.  A bowman loomed, the arrow pointed at his belly, the string pulled back, the man’s teeth already gleaming with the joy of hitting his target.  He lunged, seized the bow with his left hand, pulling the man forward onto his sword.  Something struck him from behind.  He staggered into the bowman, pushed him away, freeing his sword as the man fell, and then he was past and saw the way clear to the great doors.

Watamaro, sword in hand, stepped in front of the doors.  He looked past Akitada, and shouted an order.  Akitada swung around, sword raised.  Six or seven of the enemy came running.  He crouched, but they rushed past him, the last one staggering as he ran.  They were pursued by Tora, teeth bared and clothes soaked in blood.  Tora stopped.

The warehouse doors slammed behind the enemy.

In the sudden silence, Tora kicked a body to see if the man was dead.  Masaji sat slumped on a rice sack.  He was badly wounded.  And Saburo?  Yes, there he was, grimacing as he pulled an arrow from his forearm.

The floor of the warehouse was covered with dead and wounded men and slippery with blood.  Akitada’s sword dripped.  In only a few moments, this carnage had happened.  Suddenly he felt very tired.

“Saburo?” he asked.  “How bad is it?  And you, Masaji?”

“It’s nothing.”  Saburo ripped a strip of fabric from his jacket and, using one hand and his teeth, made a bandage for his arm.

Masaji said nothing.

Tora killed one of the wounded.  The man twitched and lay still.  This was not like Tora, this slaughter of the wounded.  The good feeling left Akitada.  He felt dizzy and nauseated.  Wiping his sword with the edge of his robe, he went to sit on a box.

“We need to get out,” Tora said.

This was obvious.  Akitada did not bother to reply.  Tora went to check on Masaji.

Akitada glanced at the great doors.  Surely they had locked them.  And if not, they were waiting outside.  He wondered what time it was.  If they could attract attention, perhaps . . .  but no, it was late and the warehouse was on the waterside which was deserted at night.

He sniffed, smelling  smoke.  Someone cooking?  Perhaps there were ordinary townspeople nearby after all.

Tora appeared at his side.  “Masaji’s going to die,” he said softly.

Akitada took in the blood on Tora’s clothes.  “Are you wounded?”

“No.  But you are.”  Tora looked at Akitada’s back.  “Take off that robe and let me see.”

“What?  No.  I can’t be.  It’s someone else’s blood.  I was in the thick of it at some point.”  But as Tora’s fingers probed, he did feel a sharp pain on his upper back.  And he did feel unusually tired.

Tora said, “It’s been bleeding quite a lot.  I can’t tell if it’s just a cut, or if it went deep.  You’d best lie down.”  He sniffed.  “Where’s that smoke coming from?”

Between them and the doors, tendrils of smoke curled up through the floorboards.

“Amida,” breathed Tora, “they’re trying to smoke us out.”

“No.  They intend to burn us alive and claim the fire was accidental.”  Akitada struggled to his feet, but Tora and the warehouse started spinning, and he slumped back down.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Even Monkeys Fall From Trees

Akitada was tired.  Perhaps if he closed his eyes for just a moment . . .

Tora pulled him up and told him to walk—in a tone of such urgency that he obeyed.  Then he was sitting again.  Someone shoved fabric under his robe.  After that he was alone.

Resting.

This time he had misjudged matters fatally.

And others would die for it.

Something was burning.

He opened his eyes and staggered to his feet.  Wisps of smoke floated between him and the distant light.  Behind him, someone was hammering and splitting wood.  At his feet, lay Masaji, curled up like a small child.  His eyes were wide open, and he smiled.

“We’ll be reborn,” he whispered.

Akitada said dully, “I hope so,” and went to look for Tora and Saburo in the dim back reaches of the stored goods.

He found them using halberds and swords to hack at the back wall.  The wood was old and tough, the boards thick.  The air was slightly better here, but even so, both coughed and glistened with sweat.  He had lost his sword, but he picked up an iron bar and joined them.

Tora looked at him from red-rimmed eyes.  “Sit down, sir.  You’ll open that wound again.”

Akitada shook his head.  “I have to do something.”  He shoved the point of the bar between two boards and pried.  Nothing.  He tried again, this time using both hands. A board popped loose with a satisfying crack.  The smoke was growing thicker.  Akitada suppressed a cough.

The silence suddenly seemed ominous.  Where were Watamaro and his people? “Do you think they can hear us?” he asked hoarsely.

“I hope not.”  Tora shoved a halberd under the board Akitada had loosened and between them they forced two more boards out.  Fresh air blew in, but the opening was still too narrow.  Behind them, the fire crackled.  Something fell with a crash, then a thick cloud of smoke engulfed them, and when they turned, the whole front of the warehouse was a fiery hell.

They worked feverishly.  Saburo found a coil of rope.  He tied it to the nearest beam, tested the knot, and then fed it through the opening.

Akitada put his head out and looked down.  It was dark and smoky; he could not see the ground.  He doubted he could hold on to the rope and make his way down.  His back was already sticky again with fresh blood, and he could barely lift the iron bar.  From what he recalled, it was too far to jump without risking two broken legs.  The Naniwa warehouses had been built high above the ground to withstand tsunami.

Tora went back into the smoke and fire that roared behind them.  Akitada felt the searing heat and croaked Tora’s name in a panic.

“Coming.”  Tora appeared, dragging Masaji and coughing.  He dropped Masaji next to the hole and peered out.  “You go first, sir.”  He tossed some weapons out.

Akitada hesitated.  A voice outside bellowed, “Hey! They’re getting out.”

Tora cursed.  He pushed Akitada toward the opening.  “Now, sir.  Go!”

Akitada seized the rope and stepped into emptiness.

For a moment he hung suspended.  He tried to catch the rope with his feet and go down hand over hand, but his grip slipped immediately and he began to slide. The hemp burned and tore his palms, but he managed to end up on his feet, jarred by the impact.  His hands were on fire.

It was dark and smoky under the warehouse.  Watamaro’s man stood only a few feet away, staring.  When he lunged, Akitada barely managed to snatch up a sword.

The sword grip slipped in his raw and burning palm, but he was lucky.  The other man tripped over something and fell.  Akitada put a foot on his back, and stabbed downward.  Agonizing pain shot up his wrist.  It was too dark to see if he had struck a vital organ, but he heard a choking cry and felt a weak movement under his foot.  Withdrawing the sword, he stabbed down again and again.

Then Tora was beside him.  “He’s done for, sir,” he gasped.  “Get ready for the others.”  Above them the fire cracked and roared, and sparks showered the darkness.

Akitada looked up.  The night sky was red, and the rope whipped about in circles.  Smoke billowed from the opening, and then Saburo slid down and joined them.  He pointed past Akitada.  Dark shadows moved under the warehouse in the lurid smoke rent by flames and showers of burning debris.

Akitada still held the sword, but his hand was nearly useless.  Trying to get a grip hurt as if his palm had been scorched by the flames.  “It’s no use, Tora,” he called out.  “We must get away.  There are too many.  We cannot fight them all.”

Tora shook his head.  “Not without Masaji, sir. You go.”

Saburo came to stand beside them with his halberd.

Put to shame, Akitada made up his mind to fight.  Above them the fire raged.  Debris had accumulated under the warehouse and around it.  In front of them, their attackers came out of the smoke, their weapons swinging.  How many?  It did not matter.  They would stand and fight until they could fight no more.

A tall man with a long sword was the first to reach them.  “Give up,” he shouted, breathing hard, “and you’ll live.”  He looked nervous and held his sword as if he were unused to it.

Akitada charged.  The man jumped back quickly, looking over his shoulder.  The others came and metal rang as Tora and Saburo moved nearby, swinging, grunting, slashing.  Akitada went for the tall man again and sent him running.  He turned to meet two others—more experienced fighters—who forced him back.  One of them fought with a staff, the other had a long sword.  Akitada lunged at the swordsman, twisting away just before the staff hit him.  But he stumbled over something, barely caught his balance, and knew his strength was ebbing.  He could not parry or deflect another attack.

Tora appeared beside him, ducking past the man with the staff, to gore the swordsman in the side.  Akitada slashed at the arm of the second man.  The staff fell, and the man ran, clutching his arm.  He disappeared into a cloud of smoke and fire as the front of the warehouse collapsed.  Suddenly they were alone.

Saburo threw down his halberd and loped over.  “How are you, sir?”

Akitada felt little beyond relief that he could let go of the sword.  He said, “All right,” and looked at his palms.

Saburo checked his back.  “The bleeding stopped, I think.”

A scream.  “No, Masaji!”

 They jumped.  Tora stood looking up at the hole in the side of the warehouse.  In the opening stood Masaji, smoke and flames outlining his swaying figure.

Tora ran for the rope, slipped, fell, and scrambled up again, while Masaji swayed above, a smile flashing wide in his sooty face.  “I’m coming, Bishamon,” he croaked and tumbled forward.  His body struck Tora a glancing blow and landed with a sickening thud on the ground.

Akitada and Saburo ran to them.  Tora struggled up, rubbing his shoulder.  Masaji lay still.

“Damn you, Masaji!” Tora groaned.  “Why couldn’t you wait? I was coming.”  He knelt, taking Masaji’s hand and touching the still smiling face.

Saburo checked the pirate.  “He’s dead, Tora,”  He lifted Masaji’s blood-soaked tunic and revealed a big wound in his belly. “He was dying before he fell.”

Tora hung his head.  “I owe him my life.”

Guilt washed over Akitada.  This, too, was his fault.  None of the past horrors would have happened if it had not been for his foolish mistake of trusting Watamaro.

“I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly.  “I’m sorry I caused all of this.  I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Tora only shook his head.

Saburo produced his horrible grin. “Never mind, sir.  Even monkeys fall out of trees.”  Then he raised his head.  “I hear horses.”

It was too late to run.  Torches appeared.  Metal and leather clanked.  Hooves clattered across the hard ground, and the prefect’s military guard surrounded them.