Текст книги "The Convict's Sword "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

“Poor old man,” Tora muttered.

“What will we do with him?” Kinjiro looked nervously down the dark corridor. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“We’ll take him with us. It’s getting dark, and that’s good. Go and light those oil lamps over there. I want to have a look at the trunk in Matsue’s room before we leave.”

“There’s no time,” the boy squealed. “They’ll come and kill us. Haven’t you spilled enough blood?”

Tora almost felt sorry for the kid, but there were more important things at stake. “You should’ve thought of your aversion to blood before you joined a gang,” he said coldly, then went to light the lamps himself. “What did you do with those tongs?”

“M . . . me? Nothing. I guess they’re still outside. You want me to get them?”

“Never mind. Just keep an eye on old Chikamura and give him some more water from time to time. He’s probably not had any for days.”

Carrying one of the flickering oil lamps, Tora found the tongs, somewhat bent from cracking the storehouse lock, and made his way to Matsue’s room to repeat the process on the long ironbound chest. He managed to loosen part of the iron fitting near the lock, inserted the tong, and twisted. The fitting gave some more and the wood cracked, but the lock held. A hatchet would do the job more quickly, but he had none. He worked up a sweat, twisting and bending and prying. Each time, the metal gave a little more. Salty perspiration ran into the fresh cut on his back and started to burn. He had forgotten about that, so it could not be too bad. And then the lock popped open.

The trunk held treasure all right. Bars of gold were stacked next to bags of coin. The bags were filled with silver. The difficulty of carrying off this wealth—a considerable weight, even if it did not take up much space in the trunk—occupied him for a moment, until he saw the sword. Though it was swathed in silk, he knew it for a sword right away. Tora lifted it out and unwound the silk. He saw a scabbard covered with some soft white material, a green-silk wrapped hilt, and green silk cords. The sword guard was decorated with gold. It was a special weapon, and when he drew the blade, it slipped easily from the scabbard. Matsue had cared well for it. And then Tora remembered.

Before he could wonder what the sword was doing here, a shrill scream cut through the silence of the house. Kinjiro! Tora whirled and charged back to the main room, drawn sword in hand. He heard Kinjiro sobbing, “I don’t know what happened. I found them like that. The old man, too. I swear it.”

Another voice cut in viciously, “You lie, snotty brat. Where is the bastard?”

So Matsue had come back for his property and caught the boy. Tora hesitated, wondering if he was alone, but Kinjiro screeched again.

When Tora burst onto the scene, Matsue was headed his way, sword in one hand and a lantern in the other. There was a look of grim determination on his handsome, cruel face. Behind him, in the uncertain light of the oil lamp, Tora saw the motionless shapes of Chikamura and the boy lying on the floor like scattered rags.

Matsue stopped when he saw Tora. An unpleasant smile twisted his mouth, until his eye fell on the scabbard that Tora still clutched in his left hand. The smile faded, and he took a step backward. Baring his teeth, he hissed, “So.”

Tora’s heart was pounding. If the bastard had killed the boy and the old man . . . but that would have to wait. They were facing off again, he and Matsue. Only this time they both had real swords. They were on equal terms, and this fight would be to the death. Tora had no intention of losing again.

“Thief!” Matsue’s voice grated with suppressed outrage. “Give me my sword, or I’ll slice you in half like a ripe melon.”

Tora grinned. It was a stupid request, not worth replying to. He moved a little to the left to avoid the light. As he moved, he kicked bedding aside so they would have a clear space to fight in.

Matsue’s eyes narrowed. He nodded his understanding and moved to block Tora. “Did you kill the two in the kitchen?” he asked in a casual tone.

“Yes.”

Matsue spat. “Fools and weaklings. You won’t be so lucky now. And these are not wooden swords.”

Tora watched the light dancing along the steel blades. “I won’t slip this time, coward.”

Matsue set down the lantern and took his position. They circled cautiously. Whichever way Tora faced, one of the lights distracted him so that he could not see his opponent’s face well. Matsue flexed his shoulder, and Tora tensed for an attack. Matsue snorted. “Ah, you’re afraid, mouse catcher. Nobody has ever beaten Matsue, and you’re nothing but a miserable foot soldier with a big mouth.” He demonstrated his superior skills with a few rapid lunges, slashes, twists, and thrusts, which Tora, expecting a trick, responded to with quick evasive or defensive moves. Matsue paused to fling back his head and laugh. “You know the way a cat plays with a mouse before it eats it? You’re the mouse now, and I’m the cat.”

Doubt nagged at Tora’s confidence. Could the man be really as good as his reputation? There had been all those certificates in his trunk. Matsue had received formal training and had proved himself to be an expert in the art. Except for a few pitiful tricks he had adapted from stick fighting, all of Tora’s experience came from fighting and killing. He wished he had not bragged to poor Kinjiro about his tricks. When it came right down to it, he had none—just a burning desire to rid the world of this man.

Tora went into his attack. A few feints and lunges and he caused Matsue to bound backward a few paces. Pleased, Tora took advantage of this to adjust his position so he no longer had the light in his eyes and could read Matsue’s expression. Much depended on recognizing the moment of attack in his opponent’s eyes an instant before it happened.

Matsue had not tried to stop him, and a flicker of the other man’s eyes explained why. Tora now had the open doors to the veranda at his back, and Matsue planned to drive him backward until he stumbled off the veranda and fell into the small garden below. There he would impale Tora as he floun dered on the gravel like a beached fish. Perversely, Tora gained new confidence from this: It was good to know the other man’s mind.

And then Matsue attacked. He came with an enormous roar: “H-o-o-o-o-u!” Tora waited, watching the pointed blade coming toward him, feeling the vibration of the other man’s pounding steps in the soles of his feet. He waited until he saw in Matsue’s face the dawning realization that Tora was not retreating, that he might kill him then and there, watched him adjust his grip to the new target, firming and aiming his sword differently, saw the triumph of the kill light up Matsue’s eyes just before he put all his power into the final lunge.

And then Tora stepped aside.

It was a very small step. They were so close that he felt the blade brush his arm, smelled Matsue’s hot breath as he shot past him, heard his feet hit the veranda floor, and turned to deliver the fatal stroke to his enemy.

But Matsue had not gone over the edge to fall prone on the gravel. He had leapt down instead, landing on his feet, and he instantly swung into another charge. Propelled by the fury of having fallen for a child’s trick, he bounded back onto the veranda in one great leap. Tora could not stop the speed of this onslaught and moved aside again. But this time, Matsue had known what he would do and slashed at Tora’s leg. He was past and back in the center of the room before Tora felt the burning pain and the hot blood trickling down his thigh. He had no time to check the wound, but knew that the blood loss would weaken him quickly and make the floor slippery underfoot. The odds had changed again.

It was very still in the room. Tora could hear his breathing and that of Matsue, an occasional rustle of fabric, and the sound of their bare feet sliding across the floor as they moved and counter-moved, seeking the right place and moment to strike. Tora began to inch toward Matsue, keeping his eyes on the other’s face. Matsue feinted toward the left—Tora had guessed it from the flicker of Matsue’s eyes and ignored it—and then Matsue lunged toward the right, where he expected Tora to be. Only Tora had by then moved the other way, raised his sword, and brought it down with a hiss of air and a shout drawn deep from his belly.

There was a clatter, a grunt, and Matsue backed away, staring at the bleeding stump that had been his sword hand. His sword lay on the floor, in a splatter of blood and severed fingers. With a roar, he tried to snatch at the sword with his left hand, but Tora put his foot on it and placed the tip of his blade at Matsue’s neck.

“It’s over,” he said, almost sadly. “You’ll never fight again.”

Matsue slowly sank to his knees. His face worked dreadfully. “So kill me and be done,” he shouted hoarsely.

“Not yet. Did you kill Tomoe?”

Matsue gave a bitter laugh. “A swordsman doesn’t dirty his blade on women. Only scum does that.” He looked up at Tora with a frown. “What are you waiting for? Kill me. I fought honorably. I deserve an honorable death by the sword.” He paused and pointed. “By that sword.”

“Maybe you fought honorably this time, but you didn’t the last time.”

“That was no fight. I was teaching you a lesson about respecting your betters.”

Killing Matsue might save trouble in the long run, but Tora believed now that Matsue had not killed Tomoe. Besides, he hated killing a defeated man. Matsue was finished as a fighter, and since that part of his life mattered more to him than anything else, he was punished enough. Perhaps he might bleed to death, but if he bandaged his arm tightly and found a doctor at this time of night in a city full of smallpox, he would live. Either way, he was no longer a threat.

Tora scooped up the fallen sword and broke it between two boards of the veranda. The hilt he flung as far as he could over the adjoining wall. Then he went to look for Kinjiro and the old man. To his surprised relief, the boy had disappeared. That meant he was alive and not badly hurt. More relief washed over Tora when he found Chikamura hiding in a corner. The old man peered up at him from under his bedding and whispered, “Is it over?”

“Yes. Where did the boy go?”

“He ran away.”

Matsue still sat motionless, perhaps waiting to die. Tora called, “Kinjiro?” but got no answer. The boy was probably far away by now. The events of this day had been enough to give a grown man nightmares. Suddenly Tora felt alone and exhausted. His knees threatened to buckle and he sat down heavily on the edge of the veranda.

The moon had risen and the night was no longer so black. In the distance a temple bell rang. Only a few hours ago they had sought refuge in the temple, and Tora had pretended he was Kinjiro’s father. What would become of the youngster now?

A sharp female voice broke into his brooding. “Hey, you rascal. What’s going on? Who knocked down my wall? Where’s Chikamura?”

Tora looked around wildly and realized that the voice had come from the other side of the garden wall. Someone was in the yard.

Then came Kinjiro’s voice, in a loud whisper. “Sssh! It was an accident. Don’t worry. It’ll be fixed.” Kinjiro sounded nervous.

“I don’t believe you. Come here.”

Kinjiro squealed.

With a muttered curse, Tora jumped up and ran back into the room. Matsue had not moved. His eyes were closed, and he was white from shock or loss of blood. Old Chikamura was sitting up. Tora cried, “Keep an eye on him and call me if he tries anything,” then dashed down the corridor.

In the moonlit yard, he found a large woman who stood with her back to him and had a grip on Kinjiro’s ear. When the boy saw Tora, his face brightened. He cried, “Make her let go of me.”

The woman gave her prey a sharp and painful shake and rasped, “You won’t fool me with that old trick, you little bastard. I’m past putting up with you lying, thieving rogues over here. I want to see Chikamura now.”

Tora hid his sword behind his back and cleared his throat.

She let go then and swung around to glare at him. “So there’s more of you bastards. I’m not afraid of you either.” Advancing on Tora, she said defiantly, “Come on, you big villain, I dare you lay a hand on me.”

Tora stepped back quickly. “No, no, madam, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not with those crooks. The boy and I came to free the old man. His nephew locked him in the storehouse and left him to die.”

She looked from him to the open door of the storehouse. The broken lock and empty water bowl seemed to convince her, but she was still suspicious. “The boy’s one of them,” she said, shooting a venomous glance at Kinjiro, who was rubbing his ear and sticking out his tongue at her. “I want to see Chikamura.”

Before Tora could answer, a weak shout came from inside the house. “Look,” he pleaded, “that was Chikamura. He isn’t well. I’ve got to go.”

“I’m coming, too.”

“No, don’t,” Tora cried, raising his bloody sword. She goggled at the sword and backed away. With a little scream, she turned to stumble across the rubble of the wall.

Tora did not wait to watch her go, but rushed back inside. Chikamura was still sitting there, but Matsue had gone. Chikamura cried, “Hurry! He’s run away. Out the front door.”

Tora sighed and sat down abruptly. “Never mind,” he said tiredly. “Let him go. We’ve got to leave. Your neighbor’s going to call the constables down on us.” He stared at the stained blade of his sword, and reached for one of the rags to clean it. The scabbard was lying in a puddle of Matsue’s blood. He went and got it. The blood had stained the white covering. Tora dabbed at the spot and then inserted the blade. He hoped the swordsmith could clean it properly. Then he looked at his leg. The cut was in his upper thigh, deep but clean. It had bled copiously earlier, but hardly oozed now. Taking off his shirt, he tore it into strips to make a thick bandage for his leg.

Kinjiro crept in. He stared at the puddle of blood and Matsue’s fingers. “You didn’t kill him?”

“No. But he can’t fight anymore. His sword hand is useless.”

“Wrong,” said the boy. “You should’ve killed him.”

Tora straightened up and looked at him. “It takes more than killing someone or winning a fight to be a man. There’s been enough killing here. Now you can help me get the old man away before any more of Kata’s thugs show up.”

“Where are we going?”

“Home. Go get the ladder. We’ll put the old man on it all wrapped up. If a constable tries to stop us, we’ll pretend it’s his funeral. I’m the son and you’re the grandson. He’ll keep his distance.”

“No,” squeaked old Chikamura, scrambling to his feet. “I’m not dead. I can walk. We’ll get the police. They’ll arrest the crooks. Look at what they’ve done to my house. This time I’ll lay charges against Buntaro and his rotten friends.”

“Ah, hmm,” said Tora, “there’s something I forgot to tell you. There was a fight earlier. I’m very sorry, old man, but I had to kill your nephew.”

Chikamura stared at him. Then he said, “Good riddance. Never could stand him. Nothing like the rest of the family. I swear my brother’s wife must’ve lain with a demon.”

Tora breathed a sigh of relief. “All right. Let’s go then.”

The old man shook his head. “I’m not going to Toribeno. I’m not dead.”

Tora began to pull at his hair. “We’re not going to Toribeno. We’re going to my master’s house. He’s Lord Sugawara. You’ll be safe there, and old Seimei will mix you one of his tonics to make you feel like a young man again.”

Chikamura’s eyes widened. “The great and wise Lord Sugawara from the Ministry of Justice?”

“That’s the one. Now will you come?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE EVIL OMEN

The great and wise Lord Sugawara was at his wit’s end. Tamako had consulted a fortune-teller, and when he got home, she was pacing the floor and ringing her hands.

“Our son will die,” she greeted him, “and you are to blame.”

Akitada, having barely had time to slip out of his shoes before being faced with this latest crisis, wished himself elsewhere. “Tamako,” he said wearily, “Genba is making preparations to take you to Akiko in the morning. All will be well.”

“All will be well?” she cried. “All will be well? The soothsayer says this house is under a dark cloud and he sees death. And right after he left, a letter from your sister came; she thinks one of their servants has the illness. But you won’t care. You never cared for anything but your work.”

Akitada sighed. “Poor Akiko. I hope she’s wrong. Of course you cannot go there under the circumstances, but you may still go to our farm if you don’t mind the discomfort. Or, since you had planned to stay here in any case, you may want to take your chances . . .”

“What chances? It’s too late.” She burst into tears. “Oh, it is too late. My poor Yori will die. My boy, my only child.” She collapsed on the floor and wailed.

Akitada had never seen Tamako, or any other woman, in hysterics. He was so shocked that he looked at his wife of six years with the eyes of a stranger. Was she possessed? Feverish? Near madness? Perhaps it was her anger at him which had brought on this violent and uncharacteristic outburst. The best policy was to withdraw from her presence to his study as quickly and quietly as possible.

But he could not do it. Instead he went to her, knelt, and gathered her to himself. “Ssh,” he soothed, stroking her disordered hair and rocking her shaking body against his. “Ssh, my dear. These are frightening times, and you worry about Yori, but surely he’s well, isn’t he?”

Her sobs subsided a little and she nodded.

“There, you see. He is a very healthy, strong child. I’m surprised you would allow a fortune-teller to upset you so much.”

She sat up a little and wiped her face with a sleeve. “It wasn’t just the fortune-teller. I had a dream,” she said brokenly. “Not once, but several times. The first time I dreamt you and I were in mourning clothes. It was nighttime at Toribeno. There was a pyre and the flames were licking upward. I woke up weeping.”

Akitada could imagine how vivid that nightmare had been. They had attended two funerals together: his mother’s and her father’s. He said soothingly, “I am sorry, my dear, but you are fearful for Yori and that has brought back memories of your father’s death.”

She shook her head. “No. There were two more dreams. I was back at Toribeno, but I was alone. I went to place the familiar things into the coffin and to offer a final meal. But when I looked I had Yori’s sword in my hand, the wooden one you bought for him, and his favorite jacket, and . . . and a tray of jam-filled cakes.” She buried her face against him again and began to weep anew. Akitada held her, miserable that he did not know how to help her. They sat there, she weeping her heart out and he glumly contemplating the troubles which seemed to have befallen his family.

Much later, she detached herself and said in an almost normal tone, “After dreaming for the third time, I sent for the fortune-teller. I hoped he would tell me my dream meant something else. But he merely looked sad, muttered the words about the black cloud, offered some condolence, and left. Oh, Akitada, I’m so afraid.”

Feeling a great sense of pity, Akitada got up and extended a hand to her. “Come. You’re overtired. We will go to your room and see what’s to be done.”

She clutched at his hand and got to her feet. “Then you do think it will come true?” she cried, eyes widening with new panic.

Akitada put an arm around her. “No, I do not,” he said firmly, walking her toward her room. “I think your fears have destroyed your peace of mind and I’m anxious to have my normal, sensible, cheerful wife back.” He looked to see if that had raised a smile or word of acknowledgment, but she detached herself abruptly and said bitterly, “I must seem a dreadful burden to you.”

He sighed inwardly. “No more than I am a burden to you, my dear. We are husband and wife, after all. It’s proper that we should care about each other.” It occurred to him that Tamako had not shown the slightest interest in his troubles for a long time now, but he put the thought aside.

She paused at the door to her room and brushed a limp hand over her forehead. “I have a headache,” she said dully. “Perhaps I’d better try to rest. Thank you for your concern. You must have many other things on your mind.” Without looking at him, she disappeared inside, closing the door gently but firmly in his face.

So that was that. For a moment he had felt close to his wife again, and the idea of first sharing their worries and then perhaps her bed had been on his mind, but it was not to be. Disappointed, he went to his study. He felt utterly alone and neglected. Seimei brought him some tea, and Akitada was ridiculously grateful for the small gesture.

“I’m very worried about Tora,” he confessed to Seimei. “It’s not like him to stay away so long. I think I must go to Kobe and ask if the police have any news.” He did not add that if they did it would be bad.

Seimei understood and said, “Surely the superintendent would have informed you.” But instead of commenting as usual on Tora’s indestructible good luck, he murmured something about distressing times.

Akitada thought of his last meeting with Kobe. “The trouble is, I’m afraid I have offended the good superintendent.”

This disconcerted Seimei. “How is that possible? You have always had great respect for him.”

“I did. I do. It was all a misunderstanding.” How little his proud memorial mattered now.

“In that case, you should certainly clear up the matter immediately,” Seimei said firmly. “Remember, a man’s actions will return to him.”

Akitada sighed. He had only just got home and was tired, and the prospect of making an apology was very unpleasant. But he got to his feet obediently. “You’re quite right, as always. I’d better go now before he leaves for the day.”

The sun was setting over another hot, dry day. As Akitada crossed the Greater Palace grounds, a golden haze of dust hung over the curved roofs and mottled the green of the trees. At this hour the palace streets were usually crowded with officials and clerks on their way home, but not today. There was some activity around the emperor’s and the crown prince’s residential compounds, but this was mostly an increased presence of guards. Few officials walked between offices, and in the Shingon Temple a prayer service was being held. The Greater Palace was so quiet it made Akitada think that the government took no notice of the troubled city beyond its gates.

The atmosphere was very different at police headquarters. Here the courtyard bustled with red-coated constables and police officers, and small groups of unsavory-looking men stood about chatting. Akitada stopped a harried young policeman who took him to the superintendent. Kobe was in a large hall, bent over a table covered with papers and maps. Lower-ranking officers sat at desks, reading documents or writing reports as constables carried messages or stacks of documents between them. Kobe did not look up when Akitada reached his side. He asked impatiently, “Yes, what is it now?”

Not an auspicious start. Akitada cleared his throat apologetically. “I’m sorry to interrupt when you’re so busy, but I need some assistance.”

Kobe raised a drawn face, grimacing when he saw who it was. “You and the rest of the world. Is your need greater than theirs?” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, encompassing the room with its policemen, piles of documents, sheets of city maps, rosters of staff, and assorted unidentifiable matter.

“Er . . . has something happened?”

Kobe glared. “Yes, something has happened all right. There are people dying in this city at a rate which is beyond the wardens, the police, or the monks. If you cast a glance out the door toward Toribeno, you’ll see the thick clouds of smoke from the cremation fires. They are burning day and night now. And in the poorer quarters, people just toss their dead into the street. The houses of the sick and dying are an open invitation to thieves, and robbers are attacking people brazenly, knowing that the wardens don’t have enough people to stop them. We have five new murders. The markets are empty because farmers no longer come to sell their produce, and people are going without food. Tomorrow I’m supposed to supervise the distribution of rice to the hungry, but I don’t have enough men to prevent a riot. Now, what is your problem?”

Akitada was aghast. “But how can this be? It was only yesterday that the Grand Council gave its first public notice of an epidemic. How can the situation have turned desperate so quickly?”

Kobe sneered, “You’ve been an official long enough to know that procrastination is a fine art in our government. They’ve known of the danger for weeks and done nothing, hoping it would go away or thinking to prevent a panic. And then their first action was to release more criminals into the streets of the city. My own troubles started with the amnesty. But I really don’t have time to discuss it. You may wish to compose another memorial to the emperor on the subject of inadequate law enforcement during epidemics. And be sure to mention that general amnesties are counterproductive in times of crisis.”

Akitada flushed. “I owe you an apology. Believe me, the memorial was not intended to criticize but to give you additional support. In any case, I tore it up when I saw that it might be misinterpreted.”

Kobe shook his head, his eyes cold. “It doesn’t matter in the least. I really cannot take the time now for an exchange of civilities.”

Akitada knew then that he had lost a friend. He made himself meet those hostile eyes. “Yes. I can see that I came at the wrong time.” He hesitated, then gave up, defeated by the other man’s implacable face. “It was just that I was worried about Tora, but never mind.” He turned to go.

“What about Tora?” snapped Kobe.

Akitada paused. “He left three days ago to investigate the murder of the blind woman and never returned. It’s not like him to be gone so long without sending word. I’m afraid something’s happened to him and wondered if you had any news.”

Kobe frowned. “No, no news. He came here that day, I think. Wanting to speak to Ihara. Perhaps he told him what he planned to do.”

“Yes, he might have done that.”

“You haven’t seen him since?” When Akitada shook his head, Kobe clapped his hands. The harried young policeman responded. “Call Ihara,” Kobe ordered.

“Lieutenant Ihara has reported sick, sir.”

“Sick? Was he sick yesterday?”

“No, sir. He seemed all right. Just . . .” The young man hesitated, looking nervous.

“Well? Just what?”

“He was unhappy that he was expected to go among the sick people and even to touch them, when the emperor himself has ordered us to avoid them.”

Kobe scowled. “I see. Thank you. That’s all.”

When the young man had scurried off, Kobe said angrily, “You see how well the Grand Council has planned? Now my men are refusing to do their duty.”

“Perhaps he’s really ill,” Akitada said.

Kobe snorted derisively. “Ihara looks out for Ihara.”

“I think I shall go ask a few questions in the city. Tora thought the blind woman had connections with criminals.”

Kobe’s eyes narrowed. “She worked in the Eastern Market, didn’t she? Someone is extorting money from the merchants there. If Tora has tangled with that gang, he may well be in trouble. But in any case, you cannot do this alone. I have no men to spare tonight and it will soon be dark. Leave it till tomorrow and I’ll give you a couple of constables.”

Akitada had not expected even this much. He bowed and thanked Kobe.

Kobe nodded, then said, “Wait. If you haven’t spoken with Tora, you haven’t discussed the coroner’s report.”

“No.”

“It was at first thought that there had been no rape, but you may recall that the coroner did find evidence of sexual intercourse. It doesn’t help Tora’s case, but I thought you should be aware of the fact.”

Akitada said angrily, “It was not Tora. I have his word for it. How do you know it wasn’t the murderer raping her?”

Kobe sighed. “I don’t know, and neither does the coroner. She was no maiden. In fact, he says she had given birth.”

Akitada left with a heavy heart. Tora was in danger, and the murder of Tomoe haunted his memory. There had been so much blood. Blind and helpless, she had tried to escape a monster who had chased her, slashing at her all the while. Had he raped her first or when she lay dying?

Outside in the courtyard a band of the ragged men were leaving through the gate, trotting at the heels of a red-coated constable. Akitada turned to a policeman. “Who are those men?” he asked.

“Sweepers, sir.”

“Sweepers?”

“They spread throughout the city after dark. Looking for trouble, checking empty houses, gathering abandoned corpses, and reporting crimes in progress.”

“Those men?” Akitada raised his eyebrows. Picking up smallpox victims was not exactly desirable work, but even so. “They look like criminals to me.”

“Yes, sir.” The policeman grinned. “It’s the amnesty. Most of the convicts have no money or jobs, so they’ll do anything for a few coppers and a hot meal.”

“Good heavens!” Shaking his head, Akitada left police headquarters. With conditions in the city in such dire straits, he had no intention of waiting to look for Tora until the following day.

When he reached home, his wife was still in her room, Yori and Seimei were having a calligraphy lesson, and the evening meal would not be for another hour. Akitada told Seimei what he planned to do and instantly met with objections.

“It’s not safe, sir. People say criminals are running around everywhere, and some of the sick lose their minds and go roaming about in the streets.”

“I know, but I must find Tora. I shall take Genba.”

Yori jumped up and snatched his father’s hand. “Can I come, too? Please, Father? I want to find Tora, too.”

Seimei, who knew how strong the bond was between his master and Tora, said, “Your father will need his wits about him. You can help by staying here and out of trouble. Besides, think how upset your mother would be.”

Yori accepted this, but Akitada felt some of the old resentment again; Tamako no longer cared about his safety—so long as he did not bring smallpox home with him. Once it had been different between them.