Текст книги "The Convict's Sword "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Much too still! The sun was up. Where were the normal sounds of a neighborhood waking to another work day?

The urge to run warred with Tora’s curiosity. He stood uncertain for a moment, then decided that he would at least do a quick search of the rooms first.

In the kitchen he found evidence that someone had visited the house during the night. The rice pot was empty and on a shelf was a paper containing two square rice cakes and a lot of crumbs. Tora helped himself to the cakes, then checked the rest of the house. He found little of interest, apart from some spare clothing and one or two weapons of the type common among criminals, until he opened the door to a room that was furnished better than the rest. It had thick grass mats on the floor, its own small garden court, and a few pieces of well-made furniture. Apparently it was used as a guest room for an honored visitor.

Among the furnishings stood a large ironbound chest of the type used by traveling merchants to carry precious goods. Tora checked it. It was locked. The police would force the lock, he thought, and listened again for the sound of their pounding feet, but the same eerie silence prevailed. He was about to open a clothes chest, when he heard an odd little bump in the corridor outside. He peered cautiously out the door. The corridor was empty. Deciding he must have imagined it, Tora turned back to the clothes chest. And here he finally made a discovery, though what it meant was more than he could understand. On the bottom of the clothes chest, underneath the folded jackets, shirts, and pants, he found some documents. They seemed to belong to Matsue. Tora had no wish to be caught rifling through that character’s private property and quickly flipped through them. Some were about his training and qualifications as a swordsman and some were old travel permits. But two pieces of paper made him whistle softly in surprise.

One was a formal transfer of rice land in the Tsuzuki district between a Lord Tomonari and his maid. The other was the title of ownership to a small farm. Tora was familiar with such legal papers, because his family had once owned a farm. This particular farm was slightly larger and probably on much better land, and it belonged to someone called Sangoro.

Sangoro was the name Kinjiro had used for Matsue before correcting himself quickly. Nothing unusual about that. Many an aspiring swordsman changed his name for any number of reasons. Perhaps Matsue wanted to hide his peasant background. What startled Tora was another word that jumped up at him from among the lines of spidery writing. It looked like the family name of the dead Haseo: Utsunomiya.

Tora was still trying to decipher this paper when he heard a distant squeaking noise followed by the clicking of a latch: the street door. Slipping the document inside his shirt, he hurriedly replaced the rest of the papers and closed the trunk. Then he stepped out into the corridor and listened. The house was as still as before. He checked the main room and then the entry, but found nobody. Belatedly it occurred to him that the door could have been closed by someone leaving the house. The thought that he had been watched made him nervous. Tora opened the door, verified the squeak, and looked up and down the street. Nobody. The neighborhood lay deserted.

Remembering the service yard, he went back to check there. It was as empty as the house. A couple of sparrows were bathing in the dust beside the storehouse. Tall walls screened out all but the roof of the neighbor’s house and some treetops. Tora pulled up a pail of water, drank thirstily, and splashed some on his face and head. His headache had dulled considerably.

The silence made him jumpy. He should have been hearing the voices of children and the sounds of men and women at work beyond the fence, but there was nothing but the soft twitter of small sparrows and the cooing of a few pigeons on the roof. He listened, then heard another sound. It was very faint, a sort of scrabbling accompanied by a whimper. Only a dog, he decided. It must be locked up somewhere. Perhaps it was thirsty. He filled the bucket again and left it on the well coping while he looked around. He peered behind the latrine and into the storage shack. No dog, but the whimpering continued. That left the storehouse. Storehouses were windowless because they were not intended for habitation, human or animal, yet it was from inside the storehouse that the sounds came.

Who would lock an animal in a storehouse? It was dark and airless in there. Was the dog being punished? Or was it supposed to guard some particularly costly haul the thugs had hidden there? He grinned at the thought of robbers afraid of being robbed. Poor beast, but he could do nothing about it.

As he turned away, he remembered the eerie groan the night before. Come to think of it, this faint wailing did not sound like a dog. Tora pressed his ear to the storehouse wall and gasped. Whatever was wailing in there did not sound human, either. He recoiled from the wall, a slow horror building inside his chest and taking his breath away.

It must be a ghost—the ghost of somebody the robbers had killed. That’s why they had taken to their heels without their clothes and valuables. Tora backed away slowly.

Another faint but horrible wail struck his ear, and he reached for his amulet before remembering that he had left it at home.

Home. That’s where he should be. Tora feared ghosts much more than a whole army of cutthroats in the flesh.

But it was broad daylight, and he had second thoughts about this particular ghost. What if the man inside was still alive?

He approached the storehouse again and checked the lock. It was heavy and unbreakable. Inside, the wailing stopped. A cracked voice called out, “Buntaro?” Tora skipped back a pace, thought about it, and decided that a ghost would not get his name wrong. And this Buntaro was one of the thugs, the owner of this place.

Relieved that he was not dealing with the supernatural, Tora put his mouth to the door, and shouted, “I’m not Buntaro. What are you doing in there?”

The voice inside broke into an agitated and incomprehensible babble and he heard fingernails scrabbling at the door.

“I don’t have a key and can’t understand you,” Tora shouted.

The babbling rose a few decibels but was still too agitated to make out. He thought he heard the word “police.” Did the person inside want him to get the police? A gangster, no matter how desperate, would never make such a request.

This cast a different light on the situation. It was one thing if gangsters dealt harshly with one of their own, but if they held an innocent person in there, Tora had an obligation to help him.

He considered the storehouse. Like all such buildings, it was made of very thick plaster walls, its roof was tiled, and its single door was of thick wooden planks. It had been built to withstand fire and robbers, and the lock was hopeless without a key.

He was taking another look at the lock when the door behind him flew open and someone cursed. A tall, thin man stood on the threshold. “What are you doing there?” he bellowed, adding another curse for emphasis.

Tora remembered him now. He had been the one with Matsue when they had found him giving the boy a lesson in sword fighting. Tora had nicknamed him the “Scarecrow” because he was ugly and his clothes hung like rags on his thin frame. The situation was awkward, but at least the fellow would remember him. He said quickly, “Oh, hello. I wondered where everyone was. I thought I heard a dog in there. Must’ve been mistaken.”

In reply, the Scarecrow pulled a knife from his jacket and started across the yard. Tora stepped back and crouched to defend himself, but the thug only checked the lock, then glared at him. “You’d better not be making trouble,” he shouted, pounding his fist against the door for emphasis, “if you know what’s good for you. Kata Sensei doesn’t like meddlers and neither do I.”

Tora straightened up. “Don’t worry, I don’t care what you keep in there. The emperor’s treasures, for all I care. I was washing myself at the well when I thought I heard a dog whining.”

The other man looked at the bucket and at Tora’s wet hair. “All right,” he said grudgingly, shoving the knife back into his belt. “Just keep your nose out of our business in the future. You’d better come along now. Kata Sensei wants you.” He took Tora’s arm, but kept the other hand on the knife handle.

“Where’s everybody gone to?” Tora asked, allowing himself to be dragged along.

“Moved to another place.”

“Why?” He remembered the ironbound chest. Why had they left their loot behind? Not to mention their prisoner.

The Scarecrow opened the street door and pushed Tora out. “Smallpox,” he said. “Next door and a few houses up the street and behind us. Almost everybody’s gone from this quarter. We found out this morning.” He locked up and motioned for Tora to start walking.

Smallpox.

Tora thought of the amulet seller in the market. It must be spreading fast. He wondered about the man in the storehouse. Maybe he had been locked up and left to die because he had smallpox. Tora shivered. “Why didn’t someone tell me?”

The Scarecrow snapped, “I just did. Shut up and get your legs moving.”

Stupid question. They hadn’t cared what happened to him. It was Kata who had sent the Scarecrow back for him. And that might be an ominous sign, too.

The street lay deserted, but when they passed the neighbor’s house, Tora saw the paper seal with the official warning on the door. A faint sound of chanting could be heard. Someone was dead or dying inside. He felt sorry for the family.

But then, he was not exactly on his way to a celebration himself. And what was he to do about the poor wretch in the storehouse?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BROKEN TIES

Akitada felt more like himself the next morning, but Seimei was still feverish. Akitada had more medicinal gruel and herbal infusions prepared, helped the old man again to the latrine, and then got dressed for work. He was already late. The sun was rising and he should have been at the ministry hours ago. After checking again to make certain Seimei was comfortable and giving the cook instructions about his care, Akitada sought out his wife.

Tamako was waiting for him in her room. The bedding had been put away, and she knelt fully dressed in the center of the room, her eyes downcast and her hands folded in her lap.

“Good morning,” he said formally, making her a slight bow.

“Good morning,” she answered, bowing also.

“I wished to speak to you before I leave,” he said, feeling ill at ease before such calm expectancy.

She bowed again. Since she did not raise her head, he could not make out her mood.

He sighed and sat down. “I was disappointed in you yesterday,” he said. “It seemed to me that you were neglecting both our son and a sick old man. I have heard your explanations and cannot accept them. Therefore I thought it best to explain how I wish my family’s affairs conducted in the future.”

She said nothing, but bowed her head a little more. In the uncertain light it was hard to see, but he thought she looked pale. He decided on a gentler approach. “Tamako, I know you have been past reason worried for our son’s life because of the rumors of another smallpox epidemic.” She looked up then and opened her mouth to speak, but he raised his hand. “No, let me finish. You cannot know what happens outside this house. You spend your life here with our child and hardly ever see anything of the world.” He remembered Lady Yasugi’s impassioned protest of such a cloistered life and went on quickly. “I realize that this limits your awareness, and such ignorance can greatly multiply one’s fears, but you must trust me in this. I have been both in the Greater Palace and in the city. Your fears are groundless. Besides, our lives are in the hands of the gods and there is little we can do to guard against fate.”

She raised her chin defiantly. “I have been told that the disease is even among the highest ranking nobles; that, in fact, His Majesty has contracted it.”

“Nonsense. Who has said such things?”

“I may spend my days here,” she said, a little tartly he thought, “but I receive visitors. Yesterday, your sister Akiko stopped by with Lady Koshikibu. Lady Koshikibu was the empress’s nurse, and it was she who told me the news from the imperial household. Akiko came to tell me that she is making preparations to leave for the country with her children. I meant to tell you last night, but . . .” She compressed her lips.

He had stormed out of the room, furious that his son could not read yet and worried about Seimei. Now he covered his compunction with bluster. “That is dangerous gossip indeed. Lady Koshikibu must be deranged to pass along such information. You are not to pass it further.” He envisioned the panic that would strike the capital—no, the nation—if such a thing became known. “Furthermore,” he added, “it cannot be true, or I would have heard.”

Tamako looked away. “As you wish.”

“Very well. Now there’s the matter of Seimei. He’s still feverish this morning. I wish him to be cared for in my absence. If you’re too afraid to visit him, you may delegate one of your maids to tend to his needs, but someone is to watch over him all the time. If his condition worsens in the slightest, you will send for me and for a doctor.”

She bowed. “I had intended to do so,” she said stiffly. “He sent us away yesterday and we were afraid to disturb his sleep, or you would not have found him alone.”

It might have happened that way. Seimei was very stubborn about accepting help. Akitada unbent a little more. He would give Tamako the benefit of the doubt. “I’m very glad,” he told her. When she did not react, he added, “I did not know what to think yesterday when I found him in an overheated room without so much as a drop of water. I couldn’t imagine how my family could have forgotten their obligation to Seimei, of all people. He has served my family from his childhood and has been like a father to me. He’s part of my family.”

Tamako’s eyes had widened. “Oh,” she said, “now I see. You thought I would let Seimei die for fear of infection.”

Aware that he had somehow offended again, he said briskly, “Well, I’m very glad I was wrong. Let’s say no more about it. And when Seimei is well again, he can take Yori’s lessons in hand.”

“There is another problem. I am told that both Tora and Genba are occupied with your errands. We are out of supplies and I had sent Genba for them last night when you countermanded my orders.”

He realized that she was very angry with him. Perhaps he should have explained the situation. “You know what Tora’s doing. I had to send Genba to stand watch at Lady Yasugi’s villa. She is the young woman who was nearly raped. Yesterday I caught one of her attackers creeping into her home. Since she is young, beautiful, and alone except for a maid, her need was greater. Send your maid to the market for today. Genba should be back soon.”

There was a pause. Then she said, “Very well.”

He felt relief at having settled the matter so easily and was about to rise and leave for the ministry, when Tamako spoke again.

“Perhaps,” she said, her voice as tight as the clenched hands in her lap, “as you have lost all confidence in me, it is time for you to consider taking a second wife. It would be a wise thing to do. You no longer trust me to supervise your household or to teach our son, and I have not given you any other sons, which you must wish for when life is so uncertain. You and Yori are the last of your father’s line and . . .”

Seized by a sudden rage, Akitada bounded up. “No!” he shouted. “I do not want another wife or more children. I want order in my household.” And he stormed from the room.

All the way to the Greater Palace, he muttered under his breath.

Women! The very idea of having to deal with more than one. The Great Sage had warned men against over-familiarity because it made females dictatorial. Tamako was punishing him for his just reproof of her behavior by threatening to withdraw her affections. For that was what the suggestion of taking another wife amounted to. Go ahead and see if I care, was what she had implied. He stalked along, rehearsing in his mind what he would tell her that night, and became more and more miserable in the process. He could not recall a time in their years of marriage when they had had such a quarrel.

Tamako had changed. She no longer cared for his company as she had in the days before Yori had begun to capture all her attention. Perhaps he had been more abrupt lately than usual, but there had been many serious matters on his mind. A wife should make allowance for a husband’s greater responsibility. He felt alone and hurt by her words, and that angered him some more.

Sakae awaited him at the ministry. “Have you heard, sir?” he cried. “The emperor is sick. He may die.” He was practically hopping about in his excitement.

Akitada stopped. “What do you mean?” he demanded. The emperor was barely thirteen years old, and a healthy young man. The possibility of his dying seemed completely remote.

“He has smallpox.”

Akitada sucked in his breath. Could it be true? Could the disease really have entered the sacred inner palace itself and infected the emperor? He glared at Sakae. “How do you know this?”

“Someone working in the chamberlain’s dormitory told someone in the headquarters of the inner palace guards. The page who carries messages between bureaus stopped by this morning and told us. It was still quite early.” This last Sakae added to show that they had been at work long before Akitada arrived.

“You are a clerk in the Ministry of Justice,” Akitada said sharply. “I would have thought that you might have learned about the unreliability of hearsay evidence. Until we receive official word about His Majesty’s condition, I will not permit you to bandy about such dangerous gossip. Do you understand?”

He brushed by the gaping Sakae and went into his office. Nakatoshi was bent over the usual pile of correspondence. He rose and bowed. “Good morning, sir.” He added with a smile, “You look more yourself today, sir.”

Akitada touched his eye. It felt normal. He had almost forgotten about it. It seemed a long time since he had tangled with the three thugs. The thought gave way to the vivid image of Lady Yasugi lying on the ground, her clothing tangled about her legs. At the time he had been preoccupied with the villain who had meant to rape her. Now the image suddenly became powerfully erotic. He curbed his imagination firmly, smiled at Nakatoshi and said, “Good morning, and thank you.”

“Has Sakae told you the news about the emperor?”

Akitada felt the smile fade on his face. “Surely there is no truth to that?”

“His informant wasn’t the only one, sir. I was told the same story by the senior clerk of the crown prince’s office. I’m afraid he’s a very reliable source. It’s disturbing news, not only because of His Majesty’s life being in danger, but also because there are apparently already plans for change in case the worst happens.”

Though Nakatoshi’s words referred to matters of national importance—how the next emperor would deal with matters of government and who would take the most cherished positions upon his accession—Akitada’s first thought was that he had once again put himself in the wrong with Tamako. And to be fair, if even the sacred person of the emperor was not safe from this terrible contagion, Tamako could be forgiven her fears. “Dear heaven,” he muttered and sat down, staring blankly at the pile of paperwork awaiting his attention.

“I mentioned it, sir, because Minister Soga would have called at the palace to present his wishes for His Majesty’s recovery and to offer prayers on his behalf at the temple.”

Of course, and Soga would have been thrilled at the opportunity. Or would he? With smallpox in the imperial household, Soga would surely have made his excuses. Akitada was struck by an unpleasant suspicion. “Surely I’m not expected to fill in for him?” Access to the imperial residence was restricted to nobles of the fifth rank and above, and he did not qualify.

“I’m afraid so, sir. I’ve taken the liberty to send a message that His Excellency is away and that you’re taking his place. I expect that you’ll be given special permission.”

“Dear heaven,” said Akitada again and glanced down at himself. “But I cannot go like this.” When Nakatoshi did not reply, he got to his feet. “I suppose I’d better go home and change into my court robe.”

“I shall take care of business here, sir.” Nakatoshi gave him an encouraging nod, perhaps because Akitada’s lack of enthusiasm was so manifest.

Akitada reentered his home less than an hour after he left it. The first person he encountered was Tamako. She looked pale and drawn and—shockingly—very sad. Bowing, she asked, “Is anything wrong?”

He tried to gauge her mood. Had she been crying? “It appears the emperor is really ill. I must change into my court robe and call at the palace.”

“How terrible,” she murmured. “I hope he will recover. Allow me to be of assistance.”

Feeling guilty, he protested, “That’s not necessary. Seimei . . .” But Seimei was ill. There was no way to avoid her company. The court robe was a very awkward costume to get into and out of.

She said, “Seimei is resting. I believe he is better, but not well enough to get up. I am sorry that I can offer only my own clumsy services.”

Tamako was not clumsy about anything she did. Such phrases were common in polite exchanges between married people who merely tolerated each other. He felt his stomach twist with misery. “Thank you.”

In his room, he undressed silently while she lit incense in a long-handled burner. The room filled with the heavy aromatic scent of expensive male perfume. Akitada wrinkled his nose at it. She lifted the court robe, the train, and the full white silk trousers from their trunk and spread them over a wooden stand.

“I tore the trousers and the robe,” he said. “Did someone mend them?”

“Yes.” She took the incense burner by its handle and passed it back and forth under the stand, letting the faint spiral of scented smoke rise into the folds of the clothing. “It was not too bad. The robe only needed re-stitching, and the tears are hardly noticeable in the fullness of fabric.”

“Thank you.” He stood there, feeling helpless and uncomfortable in his underrobe and stockinged feet. Belatedly he remembered his cap. Risking a glance at the mirror, he winced, took off the cap, and studied his eye. The bruises, though they had faded, were still there and made him look like a hooligan.

“I have some cosmetics,” she said. “They should hide those bruises.”

“I’m not wearing powder and paint,” he said, shocked by the notion.

She bowed her head. “I am sorry. I should not have suggested it.”

They fell silent again as he waited for her to finish perfuming his clothes.

After a long while, he said, “I should not have spoken so harshly to you earlier. Especially when it turns out that you were quite right about the emperor.”

“It does not matter,” she said listlessly.

She held out the silk trousers, and he put his hands on her shoulders as he stepped into them. Their physical closeness was an irritant, and he stepped away from her as soon as he could. Feeling guilty, he searched for something else conciliatory to say. “Let Yori practice his reading until we can buy more paper and brushes.”

“As you wish.” She helped him with the gown and seemed to avoid touching him, then turned to get his sash, his elaborate headgear, and his baton of office. Kneeling before him, she placed these articles at his feet and bowed. “Do you wish for anything else?”

“N-no. Thank you.” He watched as she rose and left the room—so silently that he was aware only of the softest rustle of silk and the slightest whisper of her feet on the polished boards. The door closed noiselessly. It was as if his wife had dissolved into air. Putting on the sash by himself was a struggle.

His progress on the way back was awkward, as always when he was forced to wear formal dress. Nakatoshi awaited him with the official pass that would admit him to the Imperial Palace. Sakae hovered in the background, looking smug. Akitada took the opportunity to apologize for having doubted him earlier. Sakae’s smug expression turned into a smirk. He accepted the apology with a humility that was as excessive as it was false.

At Kenreimon, the central gate to the Imperial Palace, Akitada presented his pass to an officer of the palace guard, a man much younger than he and well above him in court rank. He was waved through without so much as a curious glance. No doubt a stream of well-wishers had already paid their respects, and Akitada was of less significance than any of them.

Before him lay the inner wall and another gate, Shomeimon, nicknamed the “Bedroom Gate.” It was thatched with cypress bark and only slightly smaller than the outer one. He climbed the three steps, had his credentials and costume inspected by two stern-faced officials, and descended on the other side.

He now stood in the South Court of the Imperial Palace. The Audience Hall, known as the Purple Sanctum, rose directly before him. It was very large but as simple as a Shinto shrine, unpainted and roofed with thick cypress bark. A wide staircase led up to its veranda.

To his right and left were other halls, and beyond the Audience Hall rose more roofs in bewildering succession. Akitada looked around the courtyard, scene of many imperial festivities and sacred rituals, and at the famous cherry and orange trees on either side of the grand staircase. These things he had only heard about. Then he gazed at the people in the courtyard, some walking, others standing about in groups. They were either not afraid of contagion or valued the opportunity to show their devotion more highly. Palace servants in white with tall black hats mingled with courtiers and senior Imperial Guard officers carrying bows and arrows.

Akitada caught some surprised glances at his own robe and retreated nervously. He saw now that the inner wall was a double covered gallery that led off to the east and west, but he did not know where to turn.

One of the officials at the gate had waved casually toward the left. Akitada began to walk that way along the covered gallery. Men passed him, giving him curious stares; he was a stranger here. All of them outranked him, and he did not dare ask them for directions. When he reached another set of steps into the courtyard, he saw that the gallery continued into a separate enclosure and stopped. He looked doubtfully at the two halls ahead. Most visitors seemed to be headed toward the second of these. Akitada followed them into the graveled courtyard and walked under the trees, looking for one of the palace servants. Alas, there were none.

He had just made up his mind to risk interrupting one of the small groups of nobles, when he recognized a face. His old friend Kosehira stood chatting with several others, his pudgy hands fluttering and his round face unusually serious. Akitada stopped.

One of the men with Kosehira noticed him and said something. Kosehira turned, cried out, “If it isn’t Akitada!” and rushed over. Good old Kosehira. He had always treated Akitada as a friend, even if he had long since outstripped him by several ranks.

They embraced. “What did you do to your face?” demanded Kosehira. “Been in the wars again?”

“Just a disagreement with a thug. How are you, Kosehira?”

“Never better. My family grows and my garden is beautiful just now. You must see it. I have moved the waterway and built a charming poetry pavilion in the far corner. It’s so inspiraenve you would have poetry flowing tional that even you vould have poetry flowing from your lips

“Kosehira,” said Akitada nervously with a glance at his friend’s companions, “surely this is not the time and place, when His Majesty is so ill. And aren’t people afraid to come here?”

“Oh, that. Well, we’re not likely to be admitted to his presence. Everyone is very concerned, but I hear he is not too bad. Young people seem to shake these things off so easily. They say he’s hardly marked at all. Dreadful disease, of course. A lot of people have left for the country. All is well at your house, I hope?”

“Yes,” Akitada said, bemused, “and yours?”

“Of course. I’ve added three more children to my brood. Two sons and a puny little girl. I seem to spoil my little ladies more than the boys. And how fares your family? Any new lovely ladies?”

Akitada smiled. “No. Both Tamako and Yori are well.”

Kosehira cocked his head. “Only one child? In all those years? Come, that is too bad of you. I know of any number of well-born young women who would eagerly join your household and provide you with a large family. As a matter of fact, one of my own cousins . . .”

“Please, Kosehira, not now. I’m here to pay my respects and have no idea where to go.”

Kosehira looked puzzled. “But how did you get in?”

Akitada produced his pass. “I’m representing Soga.”

“Is he ill or dead?” Kosehira asked hopefully. He knew Soga, and he also knew of Akitada’s troubles with the minister.

“Neither. He’s gone to the country.”

“Pity.”

“How serious is this epidemic?”

Kosehira’s face lengthened. “Serious. Kinnori has died and now his son and two of his wives have it. The great minister of the left has moved to his second wife’s home, because his first wife’s father and uncle are both ill. The crown prince’s mentor is at death’s door and has taken Buddhist vows. And there are others. It’s hard to tell who’s sick and who’s in hiding; they just don’t come to court or they have left the capital. It’s said that Takaie brought it back with him from Tsukushi when he returned to court early this year. His retainers and servants have spread it among the common people. Apparently the young get it first.”

Akitada stared at him. This passed belief. “But what about all these people here? And why haven’t there been announcements and proclamations? Why just let the disease spread without so much as a word?”