Текст книги "The Convict's Sword "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Genba peered out, then opened the small door. He looked guilty, but that had become Genba’s ordinary expression lately. And he was eating again. When Akitada stepped through, he saw Lady Yasugi’s unpleasant maid standing there with a silly smirk on her round face. Two folding chairs had been set up against the wall of the gatehouse, and a basket filled with food and wine flasks stood between them.

“Hmm,” Akitada said pointedly, giving Genba a frown. “Anything to report?”

Genba gulped down a mouthful of food and croaked, “Nothing, sir. All quiet.”

Akitada turned to the maid. “And your lady rested well?”

“Yes, sir. She’s in the garden.” She shot Genba a glance, then led the way. As soon as they stepped out into the sunshine of the garden, she pointed, “Over there,” and left to continue her tryst with Genba. Akitada decided to forgive Genba, and walked toward the woman who had so quickly taken possession of his thoughts.

She was leaning over the railing of the small bridge, tossing bits of food to the fish below, making a charming picture in spite of her severe gown of dark grey brocade and the fact that her hair was looped up at her neck in a rather matronly fashion.

When she heard his steps on the gravel, she jerked around, her face pale and her eyes wide with fright. The fear passed quickly into a rosy blush. She had not painted her face today and looked more delicate.

Perhaps his surprise at her appearance showed, for her hands flew to her face and hair, and she gasped, “Oh. I did not expect to see you again, my lord.”

“I’m sorry I startled you. I only came to make certain all was well.” His eyes drank her in hungrily.

“Thank you. I expect my husband any moment.” An expression almost of despair passed over her face and she looked down. “You must want Genba back. There is no need for him to stay any longer.”

“I have not missed him at all,” lied Akitada. She looked up then, and he became lost in the faint pink flush just beneath her pale skin. Before he could stop himself, he said, “This morning you are as lovely as the roses.” To his delight the color deepened and her eyes widened with pleasure.

Instinctively they moved closer to each other. “You have been very kind to me,” she said softly, her eyes searching his face as if she were trying to memorize it. “I had almost forgotten how kind a man can be.” Her eyes filled with tears. She turned and started walking away from him.

“Wait,” he cried, his voice hoarse and the words tumbling out without thought. “I came to speak to you, to ask you to trust me. I know you fear your husband. I saw the look in your face when you thought I was he. There is a way for you to escape that bond . . . if you wish.”

She stopped, but did not turn around. Shaking her head, she said, “No. Please do not press me. I cannot leave my marriage, and you must not speak to me this way.”

He went to take her by the shoulders and turn her toward him. “Why not?” he asked. “I’m only a senior secretary in the Ministry of Justice, and not at all wealthy like your husband, but my family is old and respected. I offer you my protection. My love.” He felt strangely lightheaded at having spoken words he never intended to say. He marveled how suddenly he had made this drastic change in his household arrangements, in his life, and in the lives of his family. And he waited, holding his breath, for her answer.

She stared up at him, frozen in surprise. Then her color deepened again and her eyes softened. “Oh,” she whispered, “if only I could.” Her hand crept up to touch his cheek.

Feeling triumphant, he pulled her against him. “It’s simple. Just say ‘yes,’ ” he murmured against her hair, thinking how much he liked her scent, the feel of her body against his, her caressing hand on his face.

For a moment they clung together, then she began to fight free. He saw that tears were running down her face and released her. “What’s the matter?” he asked anxiously. “A woman may leave her husband in the same way in which a man may divorce his wife. You need not even see him again. Come with me now. You can write to him, and I can see to it that everything is made legal. I’m quite good at law,” he added with a smile.

But she shook her head and looked at him through her tears. “It cannot be. Now or ever.” She snatched his hand and pressed it against her wet cheek. “My dear Akitada, you have given me the strength to go on, and for that I shall always be deeply grateful. If you care for my well-being, please do not ask again.” She released his hand gently.

He opened his mouth to protest, to argue, but such an expression of intense pain came into her face—still so beautiful even with tears glistening in her eyelashes and sliding down her cheeks—that he could say nothing.

“Please give me your word,” she insisted.

He hesitated. “If you promise to call on me when you need help.”

She nodded. “But,” she said, “we must not meet again. It is dangerous for you to be here now. My husband may arrive at any moment.”

“What could he do? Surely he doesn’t beat you?” demanded Akitada angrily.

She sighed. “Sometimes. But he has better ways to punish me.”

“How can you stay with a man like that?” he raged.

She gave him a reproachful look and he relented, consoling himself with the conviction that she would soon enough be driven into his arms. He knew now that she was not indifferent to him.

He could not take his eyes off her, and after a moment he realized that she wanted him to go. Casting about in his mind for ways to prolong the meeting, he recalled that other matter, her relationship with the murdered blind woman, her sister. But he did not know how to question her about their parents and asked instead, “Will you miss the capital?”

Her eyes softened. “I was once very happy here as a child, but that was a long time ago. I married and moved away, and for a short while I was happy then also. Now there is only grief.”

“Yasugi’s estate is in the Tzusuki district, I think?”

She looked a little taken aback. “You are well-informed.”

“I care about you. And I’m not convinced you’ll be safe with him.”

Her face paled. “Oh. You must not follow me. Promise you won’t!”

“I cannot promise. You may need me.”

She stamped her foot, eyes flashing. “No. I forbid it. I shall deny knowing you.”

She was very beautiful in her temper, and he laughed. “Very well,” he said. “When we meet again, I shall not admit knowing you unless you give me permission.”

She relaxed. “Thank you,” she murmured with a look that was almost flirtatious.

He stood gazing at her, wanting her, and trying to think of something else to say. But there was no more time. The maid came rushing down the path, shouting and waving her arms.

“Dear heaven,” breathed Lady Yasugi and looked around frantically. “My husband is here. He must not see you. What shall we do?”

They had no chance to discuss the matter, for the maid arrived and poured out her excited report. From the gate building came the sounds of horses and the shouts of men.

“I must go,” Lady Yasugi cried, and before Akitada could stop her, she had gathered up her skirts and was running back toward her room. At that moment, her husband set foot in the garden and took in the scene with a sweeping glance.

He gave a single roar. “Hiroko!”

She faltered and stopped as abruptly as a deer hit by an arrow, then walked slowly toward her husband, her head lowered and her hands folded against her breast. When she reached him, she knelt. Akitada could not hear what they said to each other, but he knew from her husband’s gestures that he was angry, and from the way she hunched her shoulders that she was desperately afraid.

Enough! Seeing her like this was unbearable. Setting his face, Akitada went to meet the man whom he already hated with every fiber of his being.

Yasugi, a short, squat figure in a fine blue hunting robe and white silk trousers, awaited him, his broad face flushed with anger. He was said to be in his early sixties, but age had not been kind. He had too much soft, lax flesh: a misshapen belly, small hands with fingers like fat white worms, and heavy jowls that pulled down the corners of his mouth before joining a triple chin. He straddled the narrow path and scowled, as if to signify that the master of the mansion had returned and caught the adulterers red-handed.

Bristling inwardly, Akitada bowed. “Do I have the honor of making the acquaintance of Lord Yasugi?”

Yasugi glared. “What are you doing here? And what have you and my wife been up to?” His voice was loud and insulting.

Akitada was offended and decided to show it. His own pedigree was much better than this man’s, and money was not everything. He drew himself up and said coldly, “I beg your pardon. I must have made a mistake. Please direct me to your master.”

Yasugi stared for a moment. Then he growled, “I’m Yasugi. Your man says your name is Sugawara. That does not explain what business you have with my wife and in my home.”

“Ah,” said Akitada, raising his brows. He let his eyes travel over the figure of his host, then remarked coldly, “You really should take better care of your property. I had the good fortune to protect your valuables and your lady from an attack by bandits yesterday. I came back today to make sure the villains had not returned, but now that you have finally found the time to see to matters yourself, I shall be glad to be on my way.” He nodded to Yasugi, whose eyes had narrowed, then bowed to his still kneeling wife. “I wish you a safe journey, my lady.”

Without raising her head, she murmured, “Thank you, my lord.”

Apparently her husband had second thoughts. “Perhaps I’ve made a mistake. I’ve had a long and thirsty ride. Will you join me in a cup of wine?”

Akitada said stiffly. “Thank you, sir, but I have neglected my own affairs too long and shall not trouble you further. Your maid will explain what happened.” He brushed past Yasugi, who had to move aside, and walked quickly back to the gate, where Genba was helping with the horses.

“Leave that!” he shouted, glowering at Yasugi’s men, and stalked out through the gate.

When Genba caught up, his face was anxious. “Is something wrong, sir?”

“That man’s an unmannered brute,” Akitada raged. “We’re well rid of him and his people.”

But not all of his people. Not the slender woman who had knelt on the gravel path before her monster of a husband and trembled at the brutal punishment awaiting her for having entertained a man in his absence. Akitada clenched his fists in impotent fury. Why had the cursed man arrived just then? Another few minutes and she would have agreed to come with him or he would have been gone.

Perhaps fate was punishing him for the sins of a past life—though he had enough fresh ones to choose from. If he had not pursued her for his own pleasure, she would not have to suffer now. Instead of protecting her, he had exposed her to even more vicious treatment.

Genba trotted behind him, puzzled by his master’s mood. After a while, he said timidly, “I hope I haven’t done wrong in striking up a friendship with the maid, sir. I thought she might have some information.”

Akitada stopped and turned. “Really? That was good thinking. I owe you an apology. What did you learn?”

Genba flushed. “No need to apologize, sir. I enjoyed the food she offered. Her name’s Anju and she’s worked for Lord Yasugi all her life. Her grandmother was his wet nurse. She’s very loyal to him, but . . .” Genba paused, giving Akitada an uncertain glance, “she doesn’t like her mistress much.”

“I gathered as much. Come, let’s walk on while you report. Did she reveal any private matters between her master and mistress?”

Genba’s color deepened. “Matters of the bedchamber, you mean?”

“No, of course not,” Akitada snapped, though he had meant that also. “I refer to their daily life together. Her position in the household. Do they live together like a normal couple?”

It was badly put and Genba said instantly, “I wouldn’t know how normal couples behave to each other, but according to the maid, this lady is disliked by everyone in the household, and her husband is often angry with her. The servants think she’s either been unfaithful or refuses to . . . give him a child. Anju says the lady drives her husband crazy with her bad moods. Sometimes she makes him so angry that he shouts and beats her.”

Genba paused when he saw his master’s bleak face.

“Go on.”

“That’s all. It must be a terrible life for both of them, sir. Why do you think they are still together? Why doesn’t he divorce her?”

Akitada said bitterly, “More to the point, since the man beats her, why doesn’t she leave him?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Akitada sighed. “I don’t know either, Genba. I was hoping you could explain it.”

He was in an impossible situation: She would or could not leave an abusive marriage, and he had promised not to interfere unless she asked for help. He could only hope for a future when she would change her mind and come to him.

They were approaching a private home, when its gate opened suddenly, and a harried servant appeared. “There you are, doctor,” he cried. “Come in quickly. The master’s having the bloody flux, and the third lady is covered with boils.”

Akitada said quickly, “I’m no doctor,” and pulled Genba away.

“This smallpox is a terrible disease,” offered Genba, looking back at the servant who stood wringing his hands and looking up and down the street.

“Yes. Tomorrow you will take the family to my sister’s country place.”

“People have been leaving in droves. I hope they have wagons and oxen left at the rental stable.”

Akitada had not thought of that. “Do the best you can, but be careful whom you deal with. If you see someone in ill health, leave quickly and go elsewhere. Tora’s not back yet, and I’m worried about him.” He stopped at the corner of Suzako Avenue. “I have another errand, but will be home soon.”

Akitada’s errand concerned Lady Yasugi’s parents and took him to the administrative offices of the capital, where he asked to see records of families with the surname Murata. Since he now knew that Hiroko had been raised in the capital, he planned to contact her parents for information about her sister Tomoe. He also hoped to get their support in a more personal matter: to free their other daughter from a hateful marriage and to take her as his wife.

But when he finally located the information, he faced a more disturbing problem than he could have imagined. Her father was the late Murata Senko, hereditary master of yin-yang and one of the scholars who devised the annual calendar that listed all the taboo days, directional prohibitions, auspicious days, and planetary conjunctions that governed most people’s lives. He had been a middle-rank official and had worked for the Bureau of Divination in the Greater Palace, so Kosehira had been quite right. Murata had sired only two children, a son and a daughter. The son had died in infancy. The daughter’s name was listed as Hiroko. Since by marriage she had passed out of the Murata family, the records did not bother to give her husband’s name. Her mother was also dead. The Murata family had ceased to exist.

Which raised two questions: Who was Tomoe? And why had Hiroko lied about her?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

TO THE DEATH

Tora and Kinjiro made their way to the Scarecrow’s house by such a circuitous route that the sun was getting low by the time they reached the quarter. They need not have troubled. Most streets were empty. When they got close to the house, they moved even more cautiously, but all looked quiet and deserted.

“There may be somebody inside,” Tora said. “Is there a way in from the back?”

Kinjiro looked Tora over. “You’re big,” he said, “but you may be able to do it.”

It involved climbing the rear fence at a corner, and then walking like a rope dancer along the narrow top of the wall for a distance of about twenty feet, before jumping to the roof of the large shed.

Kinjiro demonstrated with the ease of someone used to the route. Tora shuddered. He doubted the flimsy wall would support him, and anyone walking along the top and on the shed roof would be visible from several streets and houses.

“Kinjiro,” Tora hissed.

The boy paused, swaying back and forth, and grinned down at Tora. “Nothing to it.”

“It won’t hold me.”

“It’ll hold you if you walk quickly.”

“People will see us.”

Kinjiro cast a glance around. “It’s the hour of the evening rice. There’s nobody out. But if you stand there and wait, somebody may need to take a pee or something. Hurry up!”

With a sigh, Tora pulled himself up, tested the top of the wall, which was rounded and narrower than his foot, and found that it cracked and shifted alarmingly when he put his weight on it. He peered down into the service yard and at the back of the house. The area was deserted. The neighboring house also looked empty, but a thin spiral of smoke proved that someone was still living there and cooking the evening rice.

Kinjiro practically skipped along the wall and took a graceful leap to the shed, where he sat down to wait for Tora.

Tora began the balancing feat, arms outstretched, placing each foot carefully before the other. It did not seem too bad. Then he heard a door slam somewhere and Kinjiro waved to him to hurry. Tora slipped and almost fell. He caught himself, took two or three running steps, and just as he prepared to jump, the top of the wall gave under him and he fell. With a crack and a rumble that must have carried clear across the quarter, an entire section of the wall collapsed, and Tora descended in a deafening rattle of ripping and falling laths and chunks of dirt. He ended up in a pile of rubble, covered with dust and scrapes. He waited until the dust settled, his eyes on the back of the house, expecting Kata’s people to come pouring out in force to investigate the racket.

“Now you’ve done it,” Kinjiro sneered from the roof of the shed, rubbing in the obvious. But miraculously, all remained silent. Not even the cooking neighbor put out his or her head to stare at the large hole in the common wall between their properties. Tora struggled up, removed a rather large splinter from his right buttock, and limped toward the storehouse.

“Old man?” he called through the door, “Are you still in there?” There was no answer. “We’ll try to get you out. Are you all right?”

Kinjiro joined him. “Hey, Uncle Chikamura? It’s Kinjiro. Is that you in there?”

There was no response, and Tora said worriedly, “Maybe he’s dead. Or maybe he’s got the disease and can’t talk.”

They looked at each other. “You’re going to look, aren’t you?” Kinjiro asked.

“Yes, but you needn’t be here when I get the door open.”

“Needn’t be here? Why not?”

“In case he’s got the disease. Aren’t you afraid of catching it?”

“Who? Me?” Kinjiro spat. “I’m young and tough.”

Tora let it go. “In that case, let’s get those keys,” he said, his eyes scanning the pile of rubble, the gaping hole, and the neighbor’s yard beyond. How long till someone would come out to investigate?

They entered the house quietly, moving on the balls of their feet and listening for sounds. The house seemed empty, and Kinjiro got tired of the precautions. Saying in a normal voice, “Nobody’s here. I’m starving. I wonder if there’s any food left,” he headed for the kitchen.

“First the keys,” Tora snapped.

Grumbling, the boy turned into the main room. It looked as before, with clothes and bedding strewn about and a general air of abandonment. Kinjiro opened a small wooden panel in the wall. Inside were some papers and a small pile of keys. He scooped up the lot and dropped them into Tora’s cupped hands.

Tora returned to the storehouse by himself. All was as before. He tried all the keys, but none worked. And there was still no sign of life inside. Well, they had come this far and had made a considerable amount of noise in the process, so there was no point in being careful any longer. Remembering the stuff in the shed, Tora went to look for something to force the lock. He returned with the broom and the ladder. The ladder he leaned against the storehouse, in case he had to resort to breaking in through the tiles, and the broom handle he inserted between the lock and the door and twisted hard. The broom handle broke, but this time Tora thought he heard a faint moaning from inside. “We’re getting you out,” he shouted. “Just be patient.” Then he headed back into the house.

“Kinjiro?” His voice echoed strangely down the dim hallway. Outside, daylight was beginning to fade. All the more reason to hurry. He had to release the old man and then take a look at what was in the locked chest in Matsue’s room. A pity Matsue got the document back. Tora had looked forward to presenting it to his master. Where was that boy? He started toward the kitchen. “Kinjiro! Where the devil are you? I need your help.”

And then it struck him that there was something very odd about this continued silence. He stopped and held his breath. Had the boy run into trouble? Almost certainly. Tora remembered the assortment of weapons the gang had left lying about, but he had no way of getting to them, and no doubt they were by now in the hands of their owners. He was unarmed.

He reviewed in his mind the contents of the service yard and the shed, but came up with nothing except the broken broom handle. It was a pitiful weapon against a sword or even a knife, but he dashed back to get it.

Broom handle in hand, he reentered the silent, shadowy house, where someone probably waited to kill him. He did not know how many of them there were, but he had to get to the boy.

Slowly he crept along the wall, checking each room to make sure it was empty before moving on. Opening doors took time and nerve. Even the slightest squeak set his teeth on edge, and each time he expected to be jumped. In this manner he made it all the way to the main room. It was empty, but the hidden compartment which had held the keys, and which he remembered closing now stood open. Beyond lay the corridor that led to the kitchen.

Tora brushed the sweat from his eyes, gripped the broom handle more firmly, and started forward. He had taken a few steps when he heard the boy cry out something. It was a brief sound, quickly stifled and followed by a groan. Baring his teeth, Tora rushed forward and burst into the kitchen, lashing out wildly with his broom handle.

“Ah! Finally.” The Scarecrow greeted him with a grin of satisfaction. He was standing across from the door and had an arm around Kinjiro and a knife at his throat. A trickle of blood from a fresh cut was seeping into the boy’s shirt. Kinjiro stared at Tora with wide, frightened eyes.

“Let him go!” growled Tora.

To his surprise, the thin man obeyed. He flung the boy aside and started toward Tora. The room was small, but Tora thought that he might be able to disarm the other man before he could do any harm with that knife: It was fortunate that the Scarecrow was alone.

But no, he heard the scraping of a boot behind him. Swinging around, he saw the ill-featured thug who had guarded the front door on his last visit. He, too, had a knife and a grin on his face.

The Scarecrow snapped, “What’re you waiting for, Genzo? Get him!”

When confronted by two men with knives, it is best to use delaying tactics until one of the opponents makes a mistake, but in this case Tora was given no time. The man behind him jumped and slashed at Tora’s back.

Tora flung himself aside, heard the hiss of the knife slicing through the fabric of his shirt and jacket, and then felt pain sear from his shoulder to his waist. He ignored it. There was no time. His evasive move had trapped him with his back against the kitchen wall. His attackers were now in front and moving in from two sides. Tora thought fleetingly of the whirlwind move he had demonstrated to Kinjiro, but the kitchen was too small for such acrobatic tricks, and fending off two knives with nothing but a broom handle was pretty hopeless. He steeled himself for the inevitable—at the very least some bad knife wounds. Of the two, the Scarecrow was the more dangerous, being in an excellent position to slash and stab at Tora; his companion was hampered by the fact that he was on Tora’s left and had to reach across his own body to score a hit. Tora kept his attention on the Scarecrow.

When the Scarecrow lunged, his knife aimed at Tora’s belly. From the corner of his eye, Tora saw Genzo closing in and preparing to strike also. Tora swung up the broom handle, felt it make contact, heard the Scarecrow’s curse as his knife arm came up. Tora snatched for the knife, but the Scarecrow jerked away sharply. There was a hiss and something clattered on the floor. The Scarecrow started forward again.

At that moment the odds changed. Tora became aware of strange choking and gurgling sounds, and the Scarecrow took his eyes off Tora to glance toward his companion. Tora saw his eyes widen and instantly twisted toward what he thought was an attack. But Genzo just stood there, eyes bulging strangely, mouth gulping for air like a fish, and both hands clasped tightly to his neck.

Then Tora saw the blood. It seeped from between the man’s fingers; more and more of it welled forth until it ran down his body in great gouts, covering his chest with glistening, steaming gore, and dripping to the ground. The hot, sweet smell hung sickeningly in the air, and time seemed to stand still. Tora wondered how a man could lose so much blood so quickly, yet still keep to his feet, still move his lips and roll his eyes. Genzo tried to speak, but only a smacking sound emerged, along with a great gush of blood. And then finally his knees buckled and he fell to the ground.

The Scarecrow stared stupidly down at the body. “What—?”

Tora snatched up the dead man’s knife from the floor and said, “Thanks, stupid. That evens things up a bit.”

The Scarecrow finally realized that it had been his own knife that had slashed his companion’s throat and came at Tora with a roar of fury.

He was no trouble after that, and Tora felt no compunction about killing him. He slammed the knife into the man’s chest, watched him fall, wiped the bloody blade on the Scarecrow’s jacket, and looked around for Kinjiro. The boy was vomiting into a corner. Tora went to the wine barrel and dipped out a large helping. “Here,” he said. “Drink that and pull yourself together. We’ve got work to do. The others may be on their way.”

Kinjiro’s face was white in the gloom, and he shook a little, but he nodded and drank. Some color seeped back into his cheeks. Tora dipped out more wine, watched him drink this also, then helped himself to some.

“Very well, let’s get on with it,” he said. “We need a metal tool to break open the lock. The keys don’t fit.”

The boy nodded, stepped over the Scarecrow with a shudder, and reached into a box of kitchen tools. He pulled out a set of iron tongs. Tora nodded.

As they left the kitchen, they had to step around the large puddle of blood forming around Genzo’s corpse. The boy was still shaking badly.

Outside, the broken wall had not yet attracted notice, and Tora began to work on the lock. The nails were set deeply and had rusted, but they were no match for the sturdy tongs. In time they loosened, and the lock swung down.

Tora flung back the door. A nauseating stench greeted him. At first Tora thought the pile of clothing was too small to contain a body. He looked beyond, saw an empty bowl and the skeletal arm and hand that grasped it. He cursed with pity and anger at the inhuman monster who had confined an old man here without food or water. He was afraid to touch the body because it looked so lifeless, the arm and hand as frail as some ancient mummified limb, but Kinjiro pushed him aside and knelt on the floor.

“Old man? Are you awake? It’s Kinjiro,” he said—his first words since the fight in the kitchen. He put his hand gently on the clothes. Miraculously, the fingers on the bowl twitched a little.

“He’s alive,” Kinjiro said. “Help me get him out of here. The place stinks like an outhouse.”

Tora knew all about the smell of a close prison and much preferred it to the stench of decomposing flesh or fresh blood. He stepped in and scooped up the small body, which weighed little more than a bundle of dirty laundry.

They brought the old man to the main room of the house, where Kinjiro spread some of the bedding on the floor. In the sparse light that came from outside, Tora saw the old man more clearly. His flesh had shrunk from his bones with age or suffering. Where it was not covered by thin white hair or stubble, his skin resembled yellowed paper, and his eyes lay deep in their sockets. They were closed, but his mouth gaped on a few yellow teeth.

“He’s in bad shape,” said Tora, shaking his head. “Fetch some of that wine.”

There was no answer.

Tora started to curse the boy’s laziness, then remembered the scene in the kitchen and went himself.

The Scarecrow and Genzo were as he had left them. A few lazy flies buzzed up from the blood. As he filled a pitcher with wine from the barrel he wondered what the old man would make of his nephew’s death. When he came back into the main room, the boy was bending over the old man.

“How is he?”

“Coming around. He’s trying to say something.”

Tora knelt. The old man’s eyes were open now and moving around. A grating sound came from his throat. Tora said, “I brought you something to drink. Don’t try to talk.”

The old man drank a little of the wine, then shook his head and croaked, “Water.”

Kinjiro rushed away. Tora brushed a few thin strands of white hair from the old man’s face. His skin felt hot and dry. “I’m sorry they locked you up, grandfather,” he told him. “The boy and I will look after you now. My name’s Tora, by the way.”

The skeletal hand crept from the bedding and seized his. It also was hot and dry, the bones like those of a small bird. “Chi . . . Chikamura,” the bloodless lips mumbled. As if that had been too much of an effort, he closed his eyes with a sigh.

Kinjiro came back with the water. Putting his arm under the slight shoulders again, Tora lifted the old man while Kinjiro helped him drink. He drank for quite a long time, and Tora laid him back down. He seemed to go to sleep.