Текст книги "The Convict's Sword "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

The shed was flimsily built and old. No doubt a board or two could be loosened someplace, but how was he to accomplish this? And what was the alternative? To lie here, waiting patiently for the lessons to be over so the cutthroats could kill him without attracting too much notice? What with the amnesty and the raging epidemic in the city, nobody would bother to investigate two more bodies left in a ditch somewhere.

Tora decided to work on his bonds. The worst was the rope around his neck. He had to find a way to loosen that enough to allow himself some freedom to work on his wrists. He tried various contortions, but he only tightened the knots even more.

Breathing hard, he rested and thought about his bonds. He might get more slack in the rope if he knelt and arched his body backwards. Perhaps he could then reach the knot at his ankles. He managed to kneel, but there was not enough give to allow him to move his bound hands, though he could breathe a little more easily. On the other hand, the pain in his back, shoulders, and neck got worse.

They had tossed him down near the pile of sacks and boxes. He shuffled over on his knees to investigate it. The boxes were useless, but there was something hidden under the sacks.

How to move the sacks? Eventually he used his teeth and a slow and painful backward shuffle to drag off one sack at a time. The rope cut off his breath, choking him, and his neck and arm muscles went into spasms so that he had to rest several times, but he persisted and uncovered a large earthenware water jar. Such useful utensils are not abandoned in derelict sheds, but this one appeared to have sprung a leak. A thin crack ran down one side to the bottom.

Unfortunately, the jar was no more help than the boxes or sacks. If it were broken, it might be a different story. Shards had sharp edges and could be used to saw through rope. Tora was not sure how he could manage such a thing, but it was a moot point since he had no way of breaking the jar.

Defeated, he flopped down across the sacks to think about his chances of escaping once they came for him. Short of a miracle, they were nonexistent. He was forced to consider the jar again. He had neither tools nor the use of his hands, and his feet were hobbled too closely to allow him to kick the jar apart. But he could try to break it with his weight.

He checked on the beggar, who had not moved.

Getting up on his feet—not an easy thing to do—he shuffled into position and backed up. Then he sat down with as much force as he dared use with the guard outside. Pain stabbed his back and posterior, but the jar survived. He suppressed a groan, checked the beggar’s motionless figure, and scrambled up again to repeat the process. After the fifth attempt, he heard a faint cracking. On the next try, the jar collapsed. For a moment it felt as though a dozen knives had been stuck into his back and backside. He gritted his teeth and listened. The guard outside had taken to walking back and forth. He was muttering under his breath but appeared unaware of activity in the shed. Tora rolled off the jar and waited until some of the pain receded. The jar had become a pile of smaller pieces, with one large shard pointing upward from the flat bottom. He ignored the warm wetness seeping through his pants and maneuvered the shard into a corner by pushing it with his head, then backed up and brought his wrists up against it.

He needed to rub the rope against the upright shard until it parted—easier thought of than done. The shard kept moving and tipping. Since he could not see it, he had to turn around each time to check what had happened and to reposition it. Meanwhile, the rope—a strong new one—gave no signs of parting. The shard caught his skin more often than it did the rope until his hands were slippery with blood.

To make matters worse, the beggar started muttering and moaning in his corner.

Suddenly there was a scratching against the back wall of the shed, and a soft “Ssst.” Tora hissed back and waited. After a moment, Kinjiro’s voice whispered, “Tora?”

“Yes.” The beggar seemed to have drifted off again.

“Can you get loose?”

Tora could not, but whispered, “I’m working on it.”

“I’ll try to get rid of the guard.”

Tora did not know what to say. What could Kinjiro do? More to the point, what would they do to him if he were caught? He whispered, “Be careful,” but the boy had already gone.

He worked his wrists up and down feverishly. Outside Kinjiro was striking up a conversation with the guard. “Kata Sensei says to cover for you if you want to relieve yourself.”

“Kind of him,” grumbled the man. “I’m about to burst. That snack I had in the market didn’t agree with me. I’ve been stepping from one foot to the other forever.”

His rapid footsteps receded.

Tora heard Kinjiro working the lock. The lad seemed to be trying out keys. There was not much time. If Kinjiro could not open the shed quickly, the guard would be back, and their chance would be lost. He leaned into his labors with total concentration, ignoring the pain in his wrists, ignoring the choking halter around his neck, ignoring the cramping muscles in his arms and back. Outside Kinjiro cursed. Things were not going well. Tora made one more desperate effort, and this time he thought he felt the rope ease a little. Once more, and yes, a definite easing! Then several strands parted. He was almost there. He glanced at the beggar. The man’s eyes were open and watching him.

At that moment the rope parted. Tora was drenched with sweat and his breath was coming in gasps. He loosened the halter around his neck, straightened his painful back, and brought his arms forward. His wrists were a bloody mess, and he grimaced as he undid the rest of the knots with his teeth. Then he untied his feet.

Just in time.

“Hey,” shouted the beggar. “Someone quick! He’s escaping.”

Cursing under his breath, Tora pounced on him and knocked him out again, stifling the man’s shriek. He felt no compunction and had no time to worry about the evil little toad.

Outside, Kinjiro had stopped working the lock and was wrenching at the door instead.

“Back away,” Tora shouted and delivered a mighty kick to where he knew the lock was. The door flew open and he shot out.

“Hurry,” Kinjiro cried, his voice squeaking with panic. “The bastard’s going to be back any second. We’ve got to run for it.”

Their luck ran out immediately. When they rounded the corner, the guard was strolling toward them. His jaw sagged comically; he let out a yell. Tora barreled into him, knocking him down, the boy slid past, and together they ran for the next corner, dimly aware of shouts and pounding feet.

After that they ran for their lives. They dodged piles of refuse, sprinted past a funeral procession, knocked down a small child who had stepped into the street to stare, dove down alleys, and zigzagged through two wards to throw off their unseen pursuers. They did not slow down or look behind them until they reached Ninth Avenue, a busy street marking the southern perimeter of the capital. Here they attracted curious stares. Tora caught up with Kinjiro. “Slow down,” he gasped, “or we’ll have the constables after us, too.”

Kinjiro nodded, but he kept looking over his shoulder. At the intersection with Suzako Avenue, he turned toward Rashomon, the gate leading out of the city.

“Not that way,” Tora said. He pointed to the large temple on the other side of the street. “Quick, in there!”

The Eastern Temple was an ancient complex adjoining Rashomon. It had been designated “Temple for the Protection of the Land.” A steady trickle of people moved through its large gate. The epidemic had brought them here to offer their prayers for relief. Tora and the boy joined the worshippers and climbed the steps to the temple gate. An elderly monk stood there, holding a large collection bowl, his eyes unfocused and his head bobbing rhythmically as each visitor dropped his offering. Tora parted with his last three coppers as they passed through. Instead of following the others to the main hall, he and Kinjiro cut across the courtyard toward the pagoda.

As Tora had guessed, they were the only visitors to the small altar room whose walls and pillars were covered with paintings of the two Buddhist worlds. Exhausted, he collapsed on the steps that led to the floors above.

“Well,” he told the boy, who was inspecting the pictures, “we did it. Thanks for your timely help.”

“Don’t mention it.” The boy suddenly turned and grinned. “That was very good. I can’t remember when I’ve had more fun. Don’t you wish you could see their faces? Bet they’re running around like a bunch of ants back there.” He chortled and came to sit beside Tora. “We’ve got to leave town. How much money have you got, Tora?”

“I just gave the baldpate my last coppers.”

“Stupid.”

“Hey. Remember where you are. You want to go to hell?”

Kinjiro grinned. “Too late to worry about that. We’ll walk a few miles and offer to help a farmer for a meal and a dry place to sleep. Just so we get out of the capital.”

Tora shook his head. “No, we can’t. There’s unfinished business.”

Kinjiro sat up. “Are you mad? You want to go back there again? They’ll kill you. You heard Kata. And Matsue won’t put it off this time.”

“Yes, I know. That’s the point. What we know about Kata and his gang is not much good unless we tell the police.”

Now Kinjiro was on his feet, his face filled with shock and disgust. “You work for the police. The beggar told the truth.” He clenched his fists and cried, “And I trusted you.” He made a sound between a sob and a curse, and rushed out. Tora went after him, groaning when his much abused muscles refused to cooperate. He stumbled down the pagoda steps after the boy, who was already halfway across the courtyard. Tora had visions of his running to warn Kata. He was not afraid that the gang would escape the law, but that they would take their revenge on Kinjiro for letting Tora go. By dint of superhuman effort, he managed to catch up and snag the boy’s shirt just as he was dashing through the temple gate. They fell sprawling at the feet of the gatekeeper. People stopped to see what was happening.

The monk was not amused. “What are you doing?” he demanded sternly, hauling the boy up by the scruff of his neck, and glaring at Tora. “And you a full-grown man, too. Aren’t you ashamed to behave this way in a holy place?”

“Er—” said Tora, quickly hiding his bloody wrists and hands in his sleeves, “ah, well, my son here got frightened and tried to run away. He doesn’t like temples, you see. Says they’re full of ghosts and goblins. I’ve been trying to show him that there’s nothing to be afraid of, but he’s very stubborn. Don’t let him go, please.”

The monk, who had been about to release Kinjiro, got a firmer grip on him. “Is that so?” he asked, looking from one to the other. Kinjiro glared at Tora and attempted a kick at the monk’s shins. “Yes, I see what you mean,” the monk said, giving the boy a shake. “Now, son, if you don’t obey your father, I’ll have to lock you up. There is nothing to be afraid of in a temple. Ghosts and goblins don’t dare enter sacred places. Who has told you such silly and blasphemous tales?”

Kinjiro snapped, “My mother.”

“Amida!” The monk shook his head. “You both have my sympathy. Women are evil and corrupt creatures and will never enter the Pure Land. That is why they spread such tales. Don’t believe their wicked tongues.”

Kinjiro stared at him, then said with feeling, “You’re right. They are evil. I won’t ever believe one again.”

“Then you’ll go quietly in with your father?”

“Yes.” Kinjiro nodded fervently, and the monk released him.

Tora immediately put a protective arm around the boy, smiled at the onlookers, and bowed to the monk. “Thank you for your wise counsel. May the Buddha bless and reward you.”

The monk nodded graciously, and they walked with the others into the courtyard and ascended the steps to the main hall. Tora, who kept his arm firmly around the boy’s shoulders, became aware that they were shaking and that tears seemed to be running down his cheeks. Then he realized that the boy was not crying but laughing. They entered the Buddha hall side by side and found a dark recess near the doors. Up ahead a huge Buddha figure presided over prayer services for the protection of the capital. People knelt and monks chanted, but they were alone in their corner.

“That was so funny,” the boy choked out.

“It was not.” Tora was tired, sore, and irritated. “I almost lost you and I bruised my knees and elbows. You never give a person a chance to explain, do you?”

Kinjiro was still laughing. “That monk must’ve met my mother. Explain what?”

“Promise not to run again?” The boy nodded and Tora removed his arm. “I’m not with the police. I’m trying to clear myself of a murder charge.”

Kinjiro stopped laughing and asked suspiciously, “How come you’re not in jail?”

“My master got me out on his pledge to have me back in court for the trial. He convinced the judge that the police didn’t have a strong enough case against me. You see, I found the murdered woman and was arrested in her room. She was a friend of mine.”

Kinjiro considered this. “The blind singer from the market? The one that got knifed? And you joined the gang because you thought Kata killed her?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, you’re wrong about that. Kata didn’t do it. She was his good luck. Since she’s been murdered, he’s been complaining how nothing turns out right any more. I bet he thinks your getting away is just the final blow.”

Tora remembered Kata’s astonishment that Tora should suspect him. Perhaps Kinjiro was right. He frowned. “So maybe he’s out of it, but that still leaves the others. What about Matsue? You said Matsue didn’t like Tomoe.”

Kinjiro thought about it. “I don’t know. I don’t see high and mighty Matsue Sensei sneaking after a street singer. He’d send somebody else.”

“I think you’re wrong. He’d do it himself so Kata wouldn’t find out.”

The boy considered it. “Maybe. But you can’t go back there. It’s too dangerous. Let the police figure out who killed the blind woman.”

“We have another problem. They’ve got some poor bastard locked up in the storehouse.”

Kinjiro looked puzzled. “Are you sure? He isn’t one of us and I would’ve heard if they’d been in a fight with another gang.”

“I’m sure. I think it’s an old man, and he may be sick. He called out for Buntaro.”

“Buntaro?” Kinjiro’s face lengthened. “Oh, my,” he said. “It may be his uncle. Oh, Buddha! He told us the old man had gone to visit relatives in the country. And they did have a bad quarrel the day before.”

Tora was shocked. “Why would he lock up his own uncle in a dark, hot, airless place like that?” Buntaro was the Scarecrow. He remembered the man’s anger when he had found Tora tampering with the storehouse lock. And then he had pounded on the door and shouted a warning about not making trouble or it would be the end of him. It had been meant for the old man inside as well. “What was the quarrel about?” he asked the boy.

“Oh, the same old thing. It’s the uncle’s place and he didn’t want us there. When the old man fetched the police, he scared the wits out of us, but all the constables did was order us to leave. Kata was in a terrible temper. He made us stay away for a day, but then Buntaro said his uncle had left for the country and we went back. I guess the old man never left.”

“Do you know where they keep the key?”

“I know where there are some keys.”

“Good. Come. We’re wasting time,” Tora said. “We’ve got to get him out before his nephew gets rid of him permanently.”

Kinjiro caught his sleeve. “You can’t. They’ll be checking the place. Matsue keeps his stuff there.”

“They’ll do more than check if we don’t hurry.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PURPLE AND WHITE WISTERIA

Kosehira was not the only one of Akitada’s friends who was puzzled by his monogamous state. The fact that Akitada had resisted taking secondary wives to make certain of a large number of sons—hedges against the many diseases and mishaps that killed young children—fascinated Kosehira. He enjoyed all of his wives and his large brood of children and considered Akitada’s arrangement not much better than monkish abstinence.

He thinks me a dull dog, mused Akitada as he walked homeward. The beautiful profile of Lady Yasugi leapt into his mind, and he wondered what it would be like to make love to her. To his shame, he felt a surge of desire. Except for a single lapse, he had been faithful to Tamako, but lately he missed the easy friendly companionship they used to have. People grew apart after several years of marriage, and certainly that was when some men took secondary wives. Often such an arrangement was welcomed by the first wife because it meant that she was no longer plagued by her husband’s physical demands or continuous pregnancies. In fact, had Tamako not voiced that very thought only this morning, even though he had not been unduly demanding in his visits to her room? Her rejection had felt both cruel and disloyal. The breach between them was intolerably painful, and he tried to ease the hurt with angry resentment.

The truth was that he wanted affection, not many children. He wanted to come home and lose himself in some gentle cosseting, some laughter, and only afterward in the arms of a pretty wife.

As he left the Greater Palace enclosure, he saw a small silent group gathered around the notice board and went to see what had happened. It turned out to be the first official warning by the Great Council of State about the smallpox epidemic. A little late, thought Akitada bitterly, when half the officials and a good portion of the populace had already fled. The notice advised against contact with those who were suspected to have the disease. It also listed symptoms and recommended treatments. Such announcements were, of course, intended for those who could read. It was assumed that they would explain matters to the rest of the populace.

A young official, rumored to be both capable and ambitious, recognized Akitada and came over. “Ah, Sugawara,” he said with a smile, “I hear you’ve taken on Soga’s job. How exciting for you. Is he still alive?”

“Certainly he is,” said Akitada coldly, “and expected back any day.”

The younger man looked amused. “You don’t know Soga then.” He gestured at the proclamation. “All this good advice about taking boiled onions and ginseng when we all know that doesn’t work. Soga, like many others, has taken to his heels to save himself, leaving those of us behind who are willing to risk our lives in hopes of benefiting from the flight of others.” He gave a barking laugh, slapped Akitada’s back, and walked away.

Akitada stared angrily after him. Was that what people thought of him? That he had remained because he hoped for promotion—as if he had the glimmer of a chance at Soga’s rank and title. He turned away from the proclamation and walked home in a glum mood. Not far from his house, he encountered a funeral, an important one to judge by the long and solemn procession, on its way to the cremation grounds at Toribeno. It was not yet dark, and that meant that the fires at Toribeno must be burning day and night. Apparently the nobles who had remained for whatever personal reasons were paying a heavy price for their decision, and so were the ordinary people who had no choice in the matter.

He could risk his own life—the possibility of dying of smallpox still did not strike Akitada as very likely—and he must do so because of Soga’s absence, but he had no right to endanger others. Tamako and Yori must leave the city. If Tora had returned, he could take them to Akitada’s sister. Or if Lady Yasugi had left for her husband’s home, Genba could do so. If neither was available, he must go himself. He shook his head at the problems that would cause at the ministry.

Yori opened the gate for him, proud of his new role as gatekeeper, and Akitada’s heart lifted. Swinging the boy up in his arms, he said, “I see you’re making yourself useful. That’s a very good thing. I may have to rely on you to look after the whole family.”

Yori clung to him. “That’s what Mother said. She said you didn’t have time for us anymore.”

Akitada put the boy down abruptly. “That’s not true,” he said harshly.

Yori gave him a frightened look. “I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice.

Akitada tried to control his anger. Apparently Tamako had wasted no time letting the child know his father cared more for others than his family. Then he saw Yori’s eyes fill with tears, and something twisted inside him. Crouching down to bring his face level with his son’s, Akitada said, “No, Yori. I am sorry. I know I haven’t had much time for you lately, but there have been so many worries. Seimei is sick. Tora’s in danger of going to prison. A lady was attacked by evil men and I had to send Genba to watch over her. People are falling ill and dying everywhere in the city. I’ve had a great deal of work. You do understand, don’t you?”

The boy nodded, but then said, “Do you have time now?”

Akitada rose with a sigh. How could you make a five-year-old understand? He took the boy’s hand. “Yes. Will you help me change out of my court clothes first?” Yori brightened and nodded eagerly. “Then let’s walk through the garden, and you can tell me what you’ve been doing lately.”

His reward was a broad smile and an excited and disjointed report on varied activities. Yori had caught a mouse, but the mouse had bitten him and he had dropped it. He showed off a tiny red mark on a finger and was praised for his courage. He had also helped the cook to make dumplings and his mother’s maid to shake out the bedding. Then he had fed the fish in Akitada’s pond. Akitada thanked him gravely. He had tried to practice with his sword, but the straw man had fallen apart and neither Tora nor Genba were there to fix it.

“And have you had your lessons with your mother?” asked Akitada, who was wondering what mood Tamako might be in.

“Oh, Mother said I didn’t have to do them. I wanted to go to the market with cook, but she wouldn’t let me. She won’t let me go anywhere. Will you take me with you sometime?”

Akitada felt sorry for Yori, cooped up for days now without playmates or anyone in the household paying attention to him. He tried to explain about smallpox and how people could pass it to others. Yori gave him a worried look and asked, “Have they passed it to you, Father?”

“I hope not.”

The boy gently removed his hand from Akitada’s and stepped away a little. “Is it a very bad illness? Is it like what Seimei has?”

Akitada did not attempt to take the boy’s hand again. Fear raised walls between people, and this one had been thrown up between them by Yori’s mother. “It’s bad,” he said, “but not at all like Seimei’s. How is Seimei, by the way?”

“All right. Can we have some sword practice?”

“Perhaps later.” They had reached the center of the garden, and Akitada—at a loss for words to make his son understand—looked around him. The last light of the sinking sun still gilded the treetops, but below the bright colors had softened. Spring was gradually passing into summer, and the warm air was filled with the scent of a thousand blossoms. His was an old garden and had become somewhat unkempt in the exuberance of its new growth and recent neglect. He tried to find some hope in this proof of burgeoning life and beauty, but knew that beyond these walls and towering trees there were men, women, and children tossing with the fever of the disease or dying in dark incense-filled rooms, surrounded by chanting monks and weeping families.

Or perhaps, given the general fear of infection, they suffered and died alone.

Within his house, things were not much better. No one was dying, but he was alone all the same.

Akitada paused outside his room to look into the fish pond. The koi, replete with an overgenerous feeding by Yori, rose sluggishly to the surface. “Thank you for feeding them,” Akitada said. “I’ll understand if you would rather not help me with my clothes.”

Yori looked stricken. “If you would like me to help, Father, I will. I’m not afraid.”

Akitada smiled and tugged his son’s hair. Yori, like all children his age, wore his hair parted and looped over each ear. He was a handsome child, with perfect skin, large long-lashed eyes, and dimples when he smiled. He was smiling now, and Akitada’s heart melted. “Come inside then,” he said. “I have not been near anyone who is likely to be infected. Besides, we must not let our fear drive us away from each other.”

“No, Father.” Yori took his father’s hand and together they climbed the steps to the veranda and went inside.

But as they entered Akitada’s room from the garden, Tamako came in from the corridor.

“Oh,” she cried, her eyes on Yori. “I was busy and missed your return.” She made her husband a formal bow. “You are welcome.”

Seeing her worried glance at Yori, who was clinging to his robe, Akitada doubted the last, but he bowed in return. “Do not trouble yourself. Yori has offered his assistance.”

“But I’m here now. Yori, please go and read to Seimei.”

Yori clung harder and cried, “I promised.”

Akitada disliked subterfuge. “Why can’t he stay?” he asked his wife. “Are you afraid that I might infect the boy? And if so, are you not afraid for yourself ?”

Her eyes blazed. “Sometimes it’s wiser to keep our thoughts to ourselves. It seems to me that lately we have both said more than was wise . . . or kind.”

Akitada seethed, but Yori tugged at his sleeve. “Please don’t be angry again.”

Akitada made an effort to smile at his son. “I’m not angry with you. Here, you may help me take off the train and hang it up neatly on the stand.” He began the laborious process of un-tying, unwinding, and peeling off the many layers of stiff silk.

Tamako stayed, but said nothing else. When Akitada was putting on his ordinary robe, she asked tonelessly, “You are staying in the city?”

He did not bother to turn around. “Yes. I gather neither Genba nor Tora have returned?”

“No.”

“I think it best for you to take the whole household to stay with Akiko in the country. If neither Tora nor Genba is available, I will accompany you. Perhaps you could be ready to leave tomorrow?”

There was a long silence, and he turned to look at her. Her face was pale and expressionless. “You will not stay with us at your sister’s?”

“You know I cannot leave my post.”

He watched her eyes move from his face to Yori’s. “Let Yori and the others go,” she said. “I will stay here.”

The notion was ridiculous. He frowned and said, “I cannot imagine what good that will do. In the country you and Seimei can continue with Yori’s lessons and you can be a companion and help to my sister. We cannot just saddle her with a child and an old man, not to mention two servants who won’t know what they’re supposed to do in a strange household.”

She lifted her chin stubbornly. “I shall stay.”

“Absolutely not.” He turned his back on her and left his room, furious at her defiance of his orders.

He found Seimei on his veranda, sitting placidly in the last rays of the sun and sipping tea. Thank heaven, the old man looked much stronger. Seimei was instantly apologetic for taking his leisure. “I had planned to begin lessons with the young master again,” he said, “but your lady insisted that I must rest today.”

“Quite right.” Akitada sat down next to him. “I want you to be well enough to travel to the country tomorrow. My sister has enough room, I think, and you’ll all enjoy a little vacation.”

Seimei blinked at him. “Is the smallpox so very bad then?”

“Yes, I think so. I hope Tora’s all right. It’s not like him to be gone this long. Two days and two nights without a message.”

Seimei smiled. “Ah, Tora is like the flea between the dog’s teeth. He will come to no harm.”

Akitada had seen enough in his much shorter life to distrust Seimei’s optimism, but it was good to see the old man in better spirits. On an impulse, he said, “I must stay here, of course, but it seems that Tamako fears the disease, yet refuses to leave.”

Seimei nodded complacently. “Man is the pine tree, and woman the wisteria vine.”

There was certainly nothing of the clinging vine about Tamako. At least not nowadays. There had been a time when they had exchanged love poems tied to flowering wisteria branches and Akitada had planted a wisteria in his garden for Tamako. The plant was enormous now. He could see a part of it climbing through a pine tree outside her pavilion. It was purple, like the one in her father’s garden had been.

The one in Lady Yasugi’s garden was white, a much rarer plant, its long, glistening blossoms almost ethereal among the feathered leaves.

He rose abruptly. “I’m glad to see you are better, but I must go now. There is a great deal to do and I have promised Yori some sword practice.”

Seimei nodded with a smile. Akitada did not go back through the house but through the garden again. He found his son waiting in the courtyard.

The following day, Akitada dealt with paperwork at the ministry. The claimants in the front hall were few these days, a very good thing because most of the scribes were absent. Sakae continued in Akitada’s old capacity—no doubt in hopes of promotion, like that other ambitious young man at the notice board—and Nakatoshi was Akitada’s usual faithful attendant. By midday he had finished most of his work and decided to check on Genba.

The Yasugi mansion lay silent and somnolent in the warm sun. Here the troubles which had befallen the city seemed remote, and Akitada inhaled deeply the scent of flowers drifting over the wall. His heart started beating faster and he wished foolishly that he could hear the sounds of the zither again. He pictured her, seated under the fragrant blossoms of the wisteria, slender, graceful, her oval face bent over the instrument, lips curving into a smile.

And then, as if by magic, he did hear the zither and stopped. He knew the tune, had played it himself not too long ago on his flute. It was “Dream of the Night,” and the words expressed a woman’s yearning for the lover who had just left her bed. When the music ended, he swallowed hard and went to knock on the gate.