Текст книги "The Convict's Sword "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Akitada’s heart sank. Izumo was far from the capital. But at least Kunyoshi recognized the name. He said encouragingly, “It might be. What do you remember?”

“Oh, there was some reference just the other day. Now why does that name remind me of Izumo?” He scratched his head, dislodging a small shower of dust particles, and turned to study the long rows of shelving that held the nation’s tax records, records of land rent, lists of public lands, stipendiary lands, and possessory fields. “I think I may be getting it confused with another allotment case. The claimant was very unpleasant but definitely not called Utsunomiya.” He made a sudden dash along a wall of documents, pushed a short ladder up to one section, climbed it nimbly, and began to shuffle boxes around. Clouds of dust rose. “Not this one. Perhaps this?” He sneezed. “Ah! An interesting case. A temple, cultivating public land, wants to claim tax exemption. No doubt it will come your way soon. Would you like to take a peek?”

“Is it Utsunomiya land?” Akitada shouted.

“Oh, no. Another case altogether. You don’t want it? All right. It must be here somewhere. I recall when I was putting it back I was so angry I almost dropped the box . . . there! I put it in the wrong place.” Kunyoshi clambered down and brought over a large box. Brushing more dust off the top with his sleeve, he undid the silk clasp and lifted the lid. Inside was a small pile of papers, rolls of documents, and some maps. Akitada’s fingers itched to go through them, but he waited patiently as Kunyoshi slowly and lovingly inspected the contents. “Hmm, yes. It was in Izumo. I see it also involves abandoned fields in Hoki Province. But no reference to anyone by the name you mentioned. No. Sorry. My mind must have been playing tricks on me. Perhaps it was some other matter.” He replaced everything and closed the box again.

“Wait. What other matter?” Kunyoshi shook his head and dashed back to his ladder. Akitada called after him, “Can you not recall anything at all? It’s important. Think, man!”

The archivist peered down from the top of his ladder. “I wonder,” he asked, “would you care to consult the main register? An awful lot of entries, but maybe the right place will pop out. Just a moment.” He scrambled back down and disappeared into the depths of the archival hall.

Discouraged, Akitada stepped out onto the veranda for some fresh air. To his surprise, he almost fell over Sakae, who yelped and jumped out of his way.

“What are you doing here?” Akitada demanded. “I thought I sent you home quite a while ago.”

Sakae’s look of having been caught out at something forbidden changed to smug satisfaction. “Yes, sir, but the minister wants you. I am so glad I remembered that you would be here. When I saw how angry he was about Nakatoshi doing all that work for you, I rushed over here. Now you can explain the matter to His Excellency yourself.”

“What’s this I hear, Sugawara?” the minister demanded. “You have had the audacity to ask my clerk to do your personal work for you?”

Akitada glanced at Nakatoshi, who stood behind the seated Soga, pale to the roots of his hair and very angry. Nakatoshi grimaced and inclined his head slightly toward Sakae.

So the malicious little toad had made trouble for Akitada and Nakatoshi both, no doubt out of resentment for having been asked to do some work for a change. But Akitada was even angrier with Soga for using this tone with him in front of two juniors.

“It was a private matter, Excellency,” he said through stiff lips, “and Nakatoshi did the research after working hours.” Akitada was afraid that Soga was about to overstep the line again, and this time he would not let it pass.

“What private matter?” demanded Soga.

“Surely Your Excellency understands the meaning of ‘private’?”

Soga turned a deep red and sputtered, “What? How dare you? Nothing that takes place on these premises and involves one of my clerks is private. I demand an answer.”

Akitada glanced at the two clerks. Nakatoshi looked at him beseechingly; Sakae’s face, caught in a little smirk, became wooden. “Perhaps,” Akitada told Soga icily, “we can discuss this between ourselves.”

He was desperately trying to avoid what would happen if this ridiculous scene continued. Soga was much too angry to keep a rein on his tongue, and Akitada could not swallow another open insult.

Soga seemed to realize it, too. In a much calmer voice, he said, “My clerk told me that you are looking into a case involving someone called Utsunomiya. Is that correct?”

No point in denying it. “Yes. It concerns a promise I made to a friend who died five years ago. Neither I nor our clerks have used working hours on this matter. That is what I meant by it being ‘private.’”

“You know very well that I frown on any of my people dabbling in criminal investigations. I trust this is not a police matter?”

“No, it is not.” At least not yet.

Soga smoothed the ruffled feathers of his anger, obviously reluctant to lose such a tasty example of his hated assistant’s insubordination. He rose abruptly. “You have been warned, Sugawara. Do not let me catch you again.”

Akitada flushed and bowed.

“I must go home,” Soga said. “I have decided to move my household to the country and shall be absent for a few days. See to it that things run smoothly in my absence.”

Akitada bowed again. He was still too angry to trust himself to speak. When Soga had left the room, he took a deep breath and asked Nakatoshi if the minister had received any special duties or new cases.

“No, sir. Just the usual calendar. I’m really sorry . . .”

“Never mind,” interrupted Akitada. “It was not your fault.” During Soga’s tirade, he had come to a decision. Turning to his own clerk, he said, “Since there is no urgent business at the moment, I have some other work for you, Sakae. Report to me in my office.”

Back in his office, he tried to control his temper. He wanted to strangle the malicious little beast but decided instead to keep him busy with a long overdue reorganization of the filing system in the archives. As for Soga—well, the next few days would tell.

When Sakae arrived with his writing utensils, Akitada began by dictating a report to Soga that laid out the details and advantages of a new filing system, while watching with satisfaction the dismay on Sakae’s face when the clerk began to suspect that this project would involve him. As soon as the report was written, Akitada signed it and had Sakae take it to Nakatoshi. “Then come back so that I can show you where to start,” he said. “I hope to present the minister with the finished product when he returns. It is very important that you pay attention and follow instructions precisely, as I shall not be able to be here myself.”

Sakae stared at him. “You are leaving me to do all this alone?”

Akitada smiled. “Yes, Sakae. I have other duties. It will be your chance to impress the minister. I have the utmost confidence in you and shall make it a point to tell him that you did the job all by yourself. Of course, if you don’t feel up to it . . . ?”

“Oh, I’m definitely up to it, sir,” cried Sakae, flushing. “But shouldn’t you be here? What if I have a question?”

“Well, I rely on your judgment. If you cannot handle it, consult Nakatoshi.” He watched the conflicting emotions on Sakae’s round face and knew that ambition and malice would win out over his indolence. Sakae planned to impress the minister with his industry while proving Akitada unfit for his post.

“I can handle it, sir,” said Sakae.

After leaving Sakae to his chore, Akitada went to see Nakatoshi. “I’m leaving you in charge. If there is any unforeseen business, send a message to my house. My secretary Seimei will find me. I expect to be back tomorrow or the day after.”

Nakatoshi looked extremely uneasy but did not argue.

As Akitada walked homeward, he wondered if, by this unprecedented act of rebellion and dereliction of duty, he had just taken an irreversible step toward a permanent break with Soga and ended his career in the government. Was his desire to honor his promise to Haseo merely a pretext to shed a burden which had become intolerable? He did not know the answer, only that he had to get away from Soga, from his office, and from this life, even if only for a day or two. Fate would decide. If his defiance of Soga’s orders went unnoticed, and if that little weasel Sakae kept his mouth shut, he would continue his drudgery. If not, he would find other work. If worse came to worst, he could become a farmer on the little piece of land his family owned in the country. But his steps slowed as he approached his residence. He did not know how to tell Tamako.

CHAPTER TWO

TEMPTING SOGA’S WRATH

When he turned the corner of his street, he saw Tora coming toward him. Tora sauntered along whistling, his hands tucked into his sash, his eyes directed at the cloudless sky, and a look of contentment on his handsome face. Not for the first time, Akitada was struck by the contrast between them. Tora never worried. He took each day as it came and found endless pleasure in the surprises that fate, or his master, had planned for him. Today Akitada was envious.

“Where to, Tora?” he asked.

Typically, Tora saw no need to make up some official errand to account for his strolling off in the middle of the afternoon. “There you are, sir,” he cried, “home early. I was going to the market. You want to come along? I know this blind girl who has the voice of a fairy and yet sings tales that make a seasoned warrior shiver with fear.”

Akitada was tempted. The gods knew he felt terrible. Glancing at the gate to his home, he decided he need not face questions about his early return. Besides, Tora was just the person to discuss Haseo with. “Lead on,” he said. “Knowing you, I trust she is as pretty as she is entertaining.”

Tora chuckled. “Tomoe? Not really. She’s just the best street singer in the city.” He shot his master a sidelong glance.

“Very well,” said Akitada. “We’ll have a cup of good wine somewhere, listen to your street singer, and come home.” By that time, he reasoned, nobody would wonder what had happened at the ministry. He would postpone unpleasant explanations until tomorrow.

They headed southward along busy Suzaku Avenue, where porters trotted with their loads slung on their backs, and a few messengers, at a full run, dodged horsemen and the occasional ox-drawn carriage. These tall two-wheeled vehicles were reserved for the good people and moved along sedately as their drivers walked beside the oxen and a retinue of servants followed behind. Their noble occupants sat inside, hidden behind bamboo blinds, protected from the dirty and ramshackle world of the common people. But most people were pedestrians like themselves, on their way to the business center of the city.

It was still early in the year, but the weather was getting warm already. There had been no rain for days, and a thin cloud of dust, stirred up by wheels, hooves, and feet, covered everything. The willow trees lining the avenue drooped motionless in the still air.

“Tora,” said Akitada, “do you remember Sadoshima? Did Haseo speak to you at all before he died?”

“What made you think of that again?”

“Guilt. That day I promised to clear his name. It’s been on my conscience, and today I decided to do something about it. The trouble is, I know next to nothing about his background.”

Tora clapped his hands. “Good! A new case. Just what we need. But I can’t help you much. He wasn’t up to talking, remember? Muttered a bit, though. His mind was wandering. I thought maybe he was praying.”

Praying? That did not sound like Haseo. “Try to remember his words.”

“I don’t know that I can, sir. It’s been five years.” Tora scrunched up his face in thought. “Well, he said something about a sword. But he’d been talking about swords before the battle. A good swordsman would, you know.”

“Yes.” Akitada thought about it and had an idea. If Haseo had been an expert sword fighter, perhaps his name would be known to other swordsmen. “Yes,” he said again with a nod. “That’s very helpful. We can make inquiries here in the capital. The training schools for young noblemen may know something or point us to someone who does.” Akitada’s mood lifted. “What did he say about this sword?”

“It’s been so long, sir. All I remember is some muttering about ‘my sword’ or ‘where’s my sword,’ or ‘my fine sword.’ Sorry, sir.”

“Never mind. I should have asked him before he got fatally wounded, but my mind was on other matters then. Do you remember anything else? About this praying, for example?”

Tora, though visibly concentrating, shook his head.

They were passing the walled and gated compound of the administration of the Left Capital. Akitada stopped. “I wonder if Haseo spent any time studying swordsmanship. Perhaps the city administration has a record of him.”

“Ah,” said Tora. “Very good! Wish I’d thought of that. But what about Tomoe?”

“Later. Where does this street singer of yours perform?”

“On the tower platform of the Left Market.”

Akitada suppressed a shudder. What had he been thinking of to agree to go to such a public place and listen to a common trollop? “You have low-bred girlfriends,” he said.

“She’s not low-bred and she’s not my girlfriend,” Tora said, a little stiffly. “Can’t a fellow have women friends without sleeping with them?”

“In your case it’s doubtful.” Akitada chuckled as he turned into the offices of the Left Capital. Tora’s romantic pursuits were legion. He felt a great deal better. Tora always had that effect on him because he approached all obstacles with energetic zeal, unlike Akitada, who was invariably torn by conflicting duties and agonized over every decision. Even now, he was guiltily aware that he should be in his office.

The city administration, like other official buildings in the capital, existed in two separate halves, one on each side of Suzaku Avenue, each responsible for its half of the capital. The Right Capital had, soon after its inception, fallen into ruin and ill repute and was now mainly occupied by the poor, the gangs, and a few holdouts. Akitada assumed that Haseo, as a member of the provincial gentry, would have resided in the Left Capital.

Since he was still wearing his official silk robe and stiff gauze hat and was accompanied by a servant, Akitada was greeted by the head clerk, who listened to his question and shook his head. “Utsunomiya? A single gentleman taking lodgings? And this was more than five years ago? Maybe as many as ten? Impossible, my dear sir. There is considerable coming and going in the city. Unless his family maintains property here, we won’t find anything.”

The man was not trying very hard, but he had a point. Akitada sighed and glanced around at the shelves of ledgers and registers of city wards. “Perhaps he resided in the area where the training schools in martial arts are located.”

The clerk was beginning to fidget. Only Akitada’s rank kept him from throwing up his hands and sending this bothersome person away. “Such schools exist in three different wards.”

“Ah,” said Akitada encouragingly. “That should help. Can we look through the residential registers of those wards for the years I mentioned?”

“But,” protested the clerk, “we don’t keep records of the students attending every training academy in the capital. Besides, there is no certainty that he even registered. He may simply have been someone’s houseguest. How long was he here?”

Akitada did not know and decided that he had to use different tactics. He raised his brows. “What possible difference does it make? Don’t you have your wardens report the names of everyone in their ward for every month of each year? Surely that is what the law requires.”

The clerk capitulated. “Of course,” he muttered. “Just a moment.” He went to consult with an assistant, who went to consult with several more, who dispersed and returned carrying enormous stacks of documents. “There you are,” said the clerk with a smirk. “The registers for the twelfth, thirteenth, and fifteenth wards for the past fifteen years. They are the wards which have or had training schools for martial arts.”

The stacks were enormous. Akitada saw no point in sifting through tens of thousands of entries. Instead, he informed himself about the location of the wards, the names of the schools, and the identity of the local wardens, and they left.

The first training school belonged to a master called Takizawa. They found him and his disciples already hard at work. The students, two agile youngsters in their mid-teens, were facing each other barefoot on the gleaming wood floor, while their teacher moved around them, calling out instructions. They were using wooden swords, but even a wooden sword could do considerable damage. As Akitada and Tora watched, one of the youngsters did not parry properly and had his wrist injured by his opponent. He bore the pain manfully, only asking the master’s assistant, who was putting on a splint and a bandage, if he would ever fight again.

The accident created an opportunity for Akitada to speak to Master Takizawa. But the name Utsunomiya meant nothing to the man.

“I never had a student by that name,” he said. “A colleague of mine once had quite a good pupil called Haseo. But his family name was different.”

They walked to the next school, where they met with nearly the same answer, although the master in this instance—they had to wait through two instruction sessions before he was at liberty to speak to them—suggested that a serious student of swordsmanship was likely to invest in a good sword made by a master swordsmith. Such an order was expensive and not many really fine swords were sold. The swordsmith would remember his customer. He provided them with the name of the best smith.

As they approached the Left Market, Tora said, “We could stop for a bowl of noodles or a cup of wine now, sir.”

“Later. We have hours until the evening rice.”

Tora drew in his breath. “I was hoping to introduce you to Tomoe, sir. She leaves early.”

Akitada glowered at him. “Surely even you can see that this is more important than your affairs. And please spare me the particulars.”

Tora, who had opened his mouth in protest, snapped it shut and looked offended instead.

They walked in silence through a quarter where all sorts of artisans lived and worked. Signs at gates or on door curtains advertised lacquer work, wood carving, paper making, weaving, and dyeing. Each craft had its own street, and each crafts-man belonged to his own guild. The swordsmiths shared their section with the attendant trades of the polishers, as well as of makers of scabbards, pommels, sword guards, and sword stands. Most of the houses here backed on the Arizu River, a small branch of the Kamo. Good, pure water was essential to their craft. Iron sand and carbon could be brought in from Bizen Province, but not water, and all three were ingredients in the forging of steel blades that were both hard and flexible.

The name they sought was inscribed beside the gate of a small villa: Sukenari Munechika. The size of the property and the fact that the owner had two names meant that he was descended from a family that had once been noble, and that he was held in high esteem, well above the rest of the craftsmen and merchants.

A servant received them with a bow and took their shoes. The house was quiet, but from a distance they could hear the steady rhythm of hammers striking steel. They stepped up into a large beautiful room, softly lit through paper screens. It was nearly empty, except for a few silk cushions on thick grass mats and an alcove with a calligraphy scroll and a single sword displayed on a stand.

“The master is at work, but I shall announce the gentlemen,” said the servant with another bow and disappeared on silent feet.

They sat down and looked at the sword in its scabbard covered with intricate silver overlay. The calligraphy on the scroll was also quite beautiful.

Tora asked, “What does it say, sir?”

Akitada read, “Using the sword when there is no other choice is also Heaven’s Way.”

Tora nodded. “Very good. We soldiers know that sometimes you have to kill to save lives. Right?”

“Yes. The master is also a philosopher, it seems.”

“I’ve watched a swordsmith. Before he starts, he prays to the gods to favor his work. It’s very inspiring.”

“Yes.” Akitada’s mind went back to Haseo, who had wanted a sword in his hand more than anything else in the world. Akitada, not knowing this, had kept the only sword for himself. In the subsequent battle against overwhelming odds, Haseo had fought first with a pole, and then, after unseating and killing a horseman, with his victim’s sword. It was from that moment on, when his hand had at last gripped a sword, that Haseo’s face had been filled with pure happiness. He had fought and killed, and by doing so he had saved their lives, though he had lost his own.

The hammering in the distance had stopped, and now they heard the soft footfall of the master swordsmith Sukenari. He was a middle-aged man, not tall, but with the broad shoulders and muscular upper arms of his trade. Dressed in a dark silk robe, his graying hair tied smoothly on top of his head, he looked more like a nobleman than someone who had just hammered red-hot steel into a deadly blade.

Sukenari’s manners and speech were as impeccable as his appearance. Introductions out of the way, he presented his visitors with wine and made polite small talk about the season, the recent Kamo festival, and the deep honor of their presence in his humble house. Akitada responded with compliments on the wine, comments on the unseasonably hot weather, and an anecdote about an incident during another Kamo celebration. Tora was silent, shifting in his seat. His eyes kept moving to the sword on its stand until he could not restrain himself any longer. “Did you make that?” he asked.

Sukenari smiled and shook his head. “You flatter me, young man. That sword was made by my namesake, Sanjo Munechika. I strive to learn from its perfection.”

“Could I see it?”

The smith rose immediately and took the sword from its stand. He presented it to Tora with both hands and a small bow. “Your interest honors me.”

Tora grunted and slid the blade from the scabbard. “Moves as easily as floating on air,” he commented. The blade gleamed blue in the soft light coming through the shoji screens. Its slender shape was incredibly graceful, thirty inches of narrow, curved steel so finely honed that it could split a man in half as smoothly as if he were a melon. “Sharp,” muttered Tora, touching the edge, “and straight,” extending it and looking down its length. Then, before Akitada could stop him, he had jumped up, taking the swordfighter’s stance. The air hissed as he performed a series of slashes with the weapon. When he sat back down, his eyes shone. “A man would be unbeatable with such a sword.”

“Tora!”

“Oh. Sorry, sir. Here you are.” Tora passed the sword to Akitada. “Just look at that blade! I believe it’s lighter than yours.”

Akitada received the sword and turned to Sukenari. “Please forgive my friend. He’s very enthusiastic and forgets his manners when his heart is moved.”

“I understand. Mine is moved in the same way. The gods dwell in that blade.”

Akitada noted the beauty of the temper lines that ran along the sharp edge like waves. Tora asked, “Do you think Haseo’s sword would have been as fine as that?”

To their surprise, Sukenari leaned forward, his face intent. “Haseo?”

Akitada reinserted the blade in its scabbard and, holding the sword in both hands, returned it with a bow of thanks. “I had a friend who loved swords and was a fine fighter. His family name was Utsunomiya. We came to ask if you had heard of him, thinking that perhaps he had once, years ago, had a sword made for him.”

Sukenari’s face fell. “No,” he said regretfully. “No, that is not the same man. I did make a sword once for a young man named Haseo, a very common name to be sure, but his family name was Tomonari. I don’t suppose you can describe this sword?”

“I’ve never seen it. In fact, there may not be such a sword at all. It was a foolish idea.”

“Not at all. Sometimes a fine sword will become known in the trade.” The smith made a face. “Sometimes, sadly, our best work ends up in the wrong hands. I had hoped to locate a particular sword and purchase it back.”

Akitada said, “Please accept my apologies for taking up your valuable time. Perhaps you may hear something about a young swordsman called Utsunomiya, while we may hear of the sword you seek. Can you tell us about it?”

Sukenari nodded. “Thank you. That is very kind of you, Lord Sugawara.” He picked up the Sanjo sword. “Mine was the same length as this. I follow the great master in most details. But the scabbard of mine was made from magnolia wood and covered in white sharkskin. Very plain. The sword guard was of iron and showed a gilded pine tree and a shrine on the upper side, and flying geese on the bottom. The hilt was wrapped in green silk in a diamond pattern, and the pommel was gold. The blade,” Sukenari removed the Sanjo blade from its scabbard and pointed, “had an inscription inside the hilt. My name and the year it was made. The third year of Kannin.” He sighed and slipped the sword back into its scabbard. “It is not as perfect as this, but flawed as it is, I was particularly fond of that sword . . . and of the young man I made it for.” He rose to return the Sanjo sword to its stand. Akitada and Tora got to their feet.

“A very fine man,” reflected Akitada as they walked away. “Have you ever thought that some men are a greater gift to humanity than others? This one is not only a pleasant, courteous person, but one who has perfected an art that will make our soldiers invincible.”

“I don’t see how a common soldier will be able to afford a sword like that. The ones we had in Sadoshima were poor stuff. My sword broke right away, remember? It’s still going to be the rich guy killing the poor fellow. And besides, what good was Haseo’s fine blade to him in the end? They took it away from him, and sent him to a place where he was tortured and killed.”

This was so unlike Tora that Akitada stopped and looked at his companion. “You haven’t talked like this since we first met. What’s wrong?”

Tora glowered and said, “Forget it. I’m just in a bad mood all of a sudden. Where to next?”

Akitada sighed. “I am the one who should be discouraged. We’re no closer to the solution of the mystery.” They’d reached the corner of Suzaku Avenue and Rokujo, and glanced up at the afternoon sun. “I’m absent from the ministry without permission.”

“I figured it was either that or you’d been dismissed.”

Akitada raised his brows. “Don’t you care?”

Tora shook his head. “No. You’re not happy there. Maybe you’ll be happier not working.”

“And how am I to feed all of you?”

Tora’s good humor returned. Slapping his master’s shoulder, he cried, “Don’t you worry about that. I can get work anytime and earn enough for our rice. Genba can do the cooking and keep the roof mended. And Seimei will take care of the light housework. Your lady, being a great gardener, will grow vegetables, and as you won’t have anything to do, you can teach Yori how to be a gentleman.” He laughed out loud and a passing official, whose retinue of servants kept a proper distance behind him, shot disapproving glances their way.

Tora still forgot his manners all too often in public, but how was one to discipline a servant who had just expressed his willingness to support his master and his master’s family? In private their relationship was, in any case, much closer than that of some brothers. But human bonds also brought responsibilities. Akitada suppressed a sigh and said, “Thank you. It is good to know that I can count on you. Let’s stop by the market for something to eat and to hear your street singer before going to that last training school.”