Текст книги "The Convict's Sword "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

But the cleaning of swords had become such a habit that he soon lost himself in the activity. He thought of his own sword. It had become his after his father’s death. Anger at the thieves who took it helped ease the unpleasant feeling in his belly that memories of his father always brought. Unlike his father, he had used the sword, and in that he found a sense of validation, almost as if he were still competing with a dead man.

The Sugawara sword was longer than Sukenari’s and a good deal heavier, but it had a very good blade nevertheless. He intended to get it back, though perhaps Yori would some day decide to order another, more modern sword. Soon it would be time to initiate his son into the secrets of taking proper care of a real sword.

Akitada wondered if Yori would approach the lesson as fearfully as the young Akitada had. Unwelcome memories of tearful battles over Yori’s poor writing skills came to his mind. Was Tamako right? Had he been asking too much of the child? Was he repeating his father’s sins? He had meant it for the best. A father had a duty to equip his son for the challenges of adulthood. Thanks to his own father, Akitada had known how to face danger and hardship when he met them.

Suddenly his eyes burned with unshed tears for the lost chance to thank his father. Oh, how to bridge the chasm between father and son? Yori loved Tora, and Akitada had noticed that Tora became like a child when he was with children. Why could he not be more like Tora?

He sighed and looked at Sukenari’s sword. The blood stains on the scabbard were beyond him, but the blade must be cleaned before it rusted. Blood was as damaging as water to a fine blade. Tora had wiped off the worst, but he must make certain that none was left under the hilt. With one of the small tools, he removed the peg that held the blade inside the hilt and slipped it free. Matsue had cared well for the stolen sword. Whatever his background and current occupation, the robber had loved this weapon. As he rubbed on the cleaning oil, Akitada looked at the master’s signature. The date was six years ago, one year before his dead friend’s life had fallen apart. Strange that Sukenari should have made a sword for another Haseo.

With the last trace of the bloody encounter between Tora and Matsue removed, Akitada lightly dabbed cleaning powder on both sides of the blade and used a fresh piece of paper to polish it. The blade was beautifully made, and he was very tempted to order a new sword for himself. In the flickering light, the lines produced by fusing the layers of steel began to undulate and shimmer along the deadly edge. How very close were art and violence! The moment of creation already contained the seeds of death. And the gods governed both.

Akitada shivered. A cool breeze blew in from the garden. When he turned, he saw that the trees rose dark against a faintly lighter sky. If he hurried, he could get an hour’s sleep before going to work. Turning back to his chore, he applied the fresh oil carefully and then reassembled blade and hilt. The sword guard was very finely made. He looked at the gilded pine branches and the thatched roof of some dwelling. What had Sukenari said? Pines and a Shinto shrine. Family emblems of some sort. Yes, it was a shrine roof. And then he had the oddest thought. The words for pine (utsu) and for shrine (miya) would sound like the name Utsunomiya! Could it be? Was this Haseo’s sword after all?

Sukenari had known and liked a man called Haseo. Akitada searched his memory, but could not recall that man’s family name. Five years had passed since the day his friend had died in his arms on a distant island. Akitada had asked the dying man for his surname. But perhaps Haseo’s mind had wandered already on that dark path? He had suffered a deep and dreadful wound to the stomach and was bleeding to death and in great pain. Heaven knew Akitada had not been very rational himself.

The awful memories came flooding back then, and with them the awareness—often acknowledged but never acted on—that he owed a great debt to the man who had saved his life and then lost his own.

Akitada fingered the sword guard. The emblems had been important to its owner, whatever his name had been. No wonder none of the official records had turned up any trace of anyone called Utsunomiya Haseo. For all Akitada knew, Haseo’s story had always lain there among the dusty trial records on the shelves of the Ministry of Justice and in one of the document boxes of old forgetful Kunyoshi.

His heart beating with excitement, Akitada replaced the sword in its scabbard and rose. There was no time for sleep now. He must see Sukenari right away.

A short time later, without having bothered to change his robe or eat his morning rice, Akitada strode down Suzako Avenue with the sword slung over his shoulder. He probably made a strange and frightening sight, unshaven and bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, in an old robe and armed. It did not matter. At this cool and slightly misty hour of the morning, the wide street was abnormally empty, and the few people he saw looked worse than he did. Dawn broke splendidly over the many roofs of his beloved city, gilding the roofs and sparkling off the distant tops of the twin pagodas of the Eastern and Western temples. Before him stretched the lines of willows in full leaf, their long branches sweeping the ground and reaching for the waters of the wide canal. But no children fed the ducks from the arched bridges that spanned the canal. No idlers rested under the trees. A monk and a few frightened creatures hurried on some urgent errands, keeping well clear of each other, and a solitary horseman headed for the palace. The city itself seemed to be sickening.

To his relief, Sukenari was awake and untouched by the disease. He welcomed Akitada with formal courtesy. Only a flicker of his eyelids showed his surprise when he saw the sword on Akitada’s back. He asked no questions until he had seated his guest and offered him a cup of warmed wine.

Akitada accepted gratefully. He presented the sword and explained how Tora had found it. Sukenari received it with a delighted smile and a bow. He immediately pulled the blade.

Akitada said quickly, “I cleaned it, but perhaps not as well as I should have. Tora had to use the sword against the man. He cut off the man’s fingers.”

“Ah, did he? It looks fine, just fine,” said Sukenari, turning it lovingly this way and that. “Yes, it is my sword—or rather, it’s not mine. I wonder if I can find its owner.”

Akitada tried to restrain his excitement. “That’s why I came so early. It just occurred to me . . . that is, you mentioned someone called Haseo. Was it his sword by any chance?”

“Yes, indeed. A very nice young man and a fine swordsman. He came to the capital to study swordsmanship, and when he thought he was worthy of a good sword, he came to me. After that he returned once or twice to let me polish the sword, but he’s not been back for many years now. I have forgotten where his home was, but it was near a famous shrine. That’s why he wanted the decorations. The shrine for a pure life and the pine for a long one. A family tradition, I believe.”

Akitada leaned forward. “What was his surname?”

“Tomonari.” The smith looked curious, but was too polite to ask.

“Tomonari. Yes.” Akitada sat back with a small sigh of satisfaction. “I think I met your Haseo. I thought he was telling me his name, but the detail on the sword guard makes me think that he was referring to a family motto. Did your young man say anything about his people?”

Sukenari was fascinated. “He didn’t explain, but he insisted on the decoration. We ask our clients what designs they want on the sword guard and the scabbard. But what happened to him?”

“He died in exile in Sadoshima.”

Sukenari became very still. “In exile?” he murmured. “But how could that be? He was a good man. Did he use this sword to kill someone?”

“I don’t know the circumstances of his crime yet, but he insisted that he was innocent. My friend was a big man, with broad shoulders and a strong black beard, but he wasn’t young. I would have judged him to be a little older than I am, perhaps in his forties.”

Sukenari looked dazed and sad. “Yes. He probably was. He had no beard then. I thought of him as young because he acted like a boy sometimes. He smiled and laughed a great deal, and he walked and moved with such energy—well, he seemed young to me. How very sad to suffer such a fate for no reason.”

“He saved my life.”

“Ah, at least he did not die in vain. Poor young man.”

Sukenari persisted in calling Haseo young. Akitada’s memory had been of someone who was both mature and joyless. Haseo had hardly spoken until the last few days of his life, and he certainly had not smiled until the moment when he had realized that he might see his family again. Akitada said, “Did he talk about his family? There were three wives and five children, I think.”

Sukenari shook his head. “Wives and children? How pitiful! No, we only talked about swords and sword handling. Once, early on, I got the feeling that his visits to the capital didn’t meet with his family’s approval. Sword fighting often becomes a passion. Men have been known to abandon their families for it.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t think Haseo did. The one who had his sword seems to be such a man, though. His name is Matsue, I believe.”

“Ah, I’ve heard the name. He has a bad reputation, that one. How did he come to have this sword?”

“That I must find out.” Akitada rose and bowed. “I’ve taken up too much of your time. Thank you for your help and hospitality.”

Sukenari said quickly, “But the sword. It’s not mine. Will you take it? Perhaps it will help you find Haseo’s family.”

Akitada hesitated, then accepted and slung the sword across his shoulder again.

From Sukenari, he went to the ministry and found it was a day for more surprises. The main hall was deserted, though it was broad daylight by now and working hours had started a long time ago. Not even a scribe or attendant seemed to be in the building. He passed through the hall to his office and heard muffled voices behind the closed door. When he opened it, he found Nakatoshi and Sakae in deep conference at his desk. They both jumped up and stared at him.

He frowned his disapproval. “What are you doing?”

Nakatoshi bowed first. “Good morning, sir,” he said. “Sorry about using your office, but we didn’t want to be overheard.”

“Really? Why? Nobody else seems to be working today,” Akitada said peevishly, “and you two looked surprised to see me.”

They exchanged glances. Nakatoshi flushed, but Sakae was made of sterner stuff. He said excitedly, “We just had a messenger, sir. Minister Soga has died. Of smallpox. It seemed best to discuss the matter in private.” He extended a piece of paper.

Akitada stared at him, then at Nakatoshi, who nodded. The letter appeared to be from some abbot. It was addressed to the person in charge at the ministry and contained the brief announcement that the minister had succumbed the evening before. “To be reborn into the western realm,” the abbot had concluded. Perhaps the sickness in his village had prevented him from adding more detail.

“Did either of you know that Soga was ill?” Akitada asked, looking at the clerks sharply.

They shook their heads. Nakatoshi said, “You may recall, sir, that they refused to receive our messenger. I thought it very strange since his Excellency had demanded daily reports. I think he must have become ill very shortly after leaving here.”

Sakae was smiling to himself. Akitada cleared his throat pointedly, and his clerk adopted a mournful look. “We wondered,” he said, “if the Great Council has been notified. Now that you are here perhaps I could carry your message to them?” When Akitada looked at him in astonishment, Sakae added, “To save you changing into proper attire, I mean.”

Akitada glanced down at his old robe. He had neither slept nor shaved, and his clothes were by now dirty. He could hardly make an appearance in the highest office of the government looking like this. No doubt Sakae also had ulterior motives: It could not hurt one’s career to make oneself known to the chancellor and his staff. Akitada had intended to send Nakatoshi, but he could spare Sakae more easily. He had to see Kobe to tell him that Tora had returned, and he wanted to begin a search of the archives. So he nodded and sat down to write the short cover letter, impressed his seal, enclosed the abbot’s note, and handed the whole to Sakae.

Nakatoshi looked after Sakae and sighed.

“I would have sent you, but I need you to be here this morning,” said Akitada by way of an apology. “I have some urgent business to attend to.”

Nakatoshi’s eyes flicked over Akitada’s rumpled appearance and stopped at the sword that lay across the late Soga’s desk. “But,” he stammered, “the death of the minister . . . how shall I manage, sir?”

Akitada knew that his behavior was eccentric and inappropriate, but he was thoroughly tired of more problems. He had spent a night being attacked, had dealt with a hysterical wife and unexpected house guests with assorted wounds, and had tried to make sense of all the startling and puzzling revelations about Haseo and the villain Matsue. At the moment his duties at the ministry—and there could not be many while the epidemic raged in the city—were the least of his worries. He snapped, “What you have done all along. Receive messages and relay them to me. Don’t tell me that Soga’s death will change the routine. Sakae was eager enough to step into my shoes. Perhaps you can cover for the late minister for an hour or so.”

Nakatoshi turned red. “Yes, sir. Only, what will happen to us? Will they send someone else to take the minister’s place?”

“No doubt in time.”

Nakatoshi hung his head. “Yes, sir. I wish it could be you, sir.”

Akitada gave a sharp laugh. “Good heavens, what an idea! Ministers hold at least the senior fourth rank. I’m not likely to achieve that illustrious status in my lifetime.” He saw Nakatoshi’s dejected face and said more kindly, “Thank you for your high opinion. For a moment there I was afraid I’d lost it. I’m not exactly my usual self today because I’ve had no sleep. In fact, there was no time for a shave or to change my robe before coming here.”

“I hope all is well at your home, sir?”

“Yes, so far. Tora got into some more trouble. I’m on my way now to speak to Superintendent Kobe. I assume there’s no urgent business here?”

There was not, and Akitada left for police headquarters. But Kobe was not in. He had gone to supervise the rice distribution in the market. Since the markets had closed, the people in the capital, many of whom lived from day to day on food purchased in the market, were starving. Akitada felt a pang of guilt. Kobe was dedicated to his official duties, while he was occupied with a private matter. Even Nakatoshi disapproved, and Soga would have enjoyed proving his senior secretary unfit. Soga’s death meant a reprieve for Akitada, but how long before Soga’s successor would take exception to Akitada’s unorthodox behavior? Akitada left a note for Kobe, telling him that Tora had returned after doing battle with several gang members in Chikamura’s house. That should send some constables there who could deal with the bodies and secure the property. Then he returned to the ministry.

Two of the scribes had shown up late and were listening openmouthed to Nakatoshi’s explanations about Soga’s sudden death. When they saw Akitada, they fell to their knees. He scowled at them. How quickly people learned to abase themselves when they feared a new boss!

Brushing past them, Akitada went straight to the archives. It was a familiar and hated place. He had spent years here, condemned to doing worthless research in semidarkness among thousands of old records of legal cases, because Soga wished to humiliate him or punish him for having once again “disobeyed” by solving a murder in the city. But Soga was no longer alive. And Akitada would not have to resign.

The dreary work of the past paid off in one respect. He knew exactly where the records of criminal cases were and located instantly the shelf which held those from five years ago. Taking down the boxes one by one, he lined them up on a low table, and began to sift through them.

Halfway along, he found the case against Tomonari Haseo. It had been tried in the capital, because the crimes had taken place in the same province and were of such a heinous nature that the government had taken an interest in their disposition. Frowning with impatience at the vague comments, Akitada leafed quickly through the fat bundle of documents, looking for a description of the crime.

When he found it, he had to read the charges twice, so shocking were the murders and so solid the evidence against his dead friend.

One summer day, after a violent argument over control of the family estate, Haseo had slaughtered both his parents in the main hall of their mansion, and the deed had been witnessed by his own nurse.

CHAPTER TWENTY

HASEO’S CRIME

As Akitada read the trial records, he felt the cold finger of death touching the back of his neck. Haseo’s fate was sealed from the start. He never had a chance at escape. The evidence against him looked unshakable.

The nurse, Yasura, testified that a quarrel had taken place between father and son, one of many, because the elder Tomonari had forbidden his only son Haseo to leave for the capital. The son had become angry and demanded control of the estate. Outraged, the father had berated the son, who had then drawn his sword and killed the father.

The noise of the quarrel had brought Haseo’s mother to the scene, and when she screamed and cursed him, he had killed her also. At this point, the nurse fled in fear for her life.

Akitada raised his eyes from the crabby script of the court clerk to stare at the shelves of documents. To his shame, he knew only too well that a son could come to hate a parent so bitterly that he wished him—or her—to die. But to make the leap from wish to deed a man would need not only anger but such self-importance that all other considerations vanished. The man he had met five years ago in Sadoshima was nothing like that. In fact, it seemed as if two different characters were involved, one the man in Sadoshima, the other a stranger in Tsuzuki.

The only way to get at the truth was to proceed from the assumption of Haseo’s innocence and refute or discredit every piece of testimony that had led to his being found guilty. The nurse must have lied. At least, Akitada thought, she had lied about witnessing the quarrel. It was unlikely that she, as a female servant, was present during a private meeting between father and son. More probably she had arrived with Haseo’s mother at a later time. Why had she lied?

Whatever had caused her to accuse Haseo of such a crime must have been a matter of vital consequence to the woman. Normally the bond between master and servant was a strong and mutual one. In the case of a nurse, maternal feeling and a desire to protect her charge would make that bond even closer. It was precisely this relationship that had made her testimony so devastating.

He bent over the documents again and found that the presiding judge had been Masakane, the same man who held Tora’s future in his hands. The coincidence was not really surprising; Masakane had held his position for well over a decade now.

Masakane’s sentence had been banishment for life, loss of family name, and confiscation of property by the state. Such a sentence was entirely proper for the crime of murdering one’s parents. Evidently Haseo had been the only son and, with both parents dead, the government did not feel that the parricide’s descendants should benefit from his crime. No doubt administrative greed had also played a part in this. The emperor always welcomed land that would produce income or could be given to faithful subjects in recognition of outstanding service. And so Haseo’s wives and children had become homeless paupers overnight. Only the class they belonged to saved them from becoming slaves. The documents did not concern themselves with their future. For that he would have to seek out Kunyoshi again.

Akitada put back the document boxes and was gathering up the records of Haseo’s trial when Sakae came in with two court officials. Akitada did not recognize them, but got a sinking feeling in his stomach when he saw their rank colors and the satisfied smirk on Sakae’s face.

“Their Excellencies came to consult with you, sir,” Sakae announced. When Akitada still looked mystified, he added helpfully, “You remember? The death of Minister Soga was announced this morning?”

And that, of course, made him look not only foolishly forgetful in the eyes of the two visitors, but also incompetent. Before he could save some of his dignity, the older of the two stepped forward and asked in a tone of disbelief, “You are the senior secretary? You are Sugawara?” He eyed Akitada’s appearance with manifest astonishment.

Akitada felt the blood rise to his face. He knew he looked like a derelict, or at least like a man who had been carousing all night and not bothered to change. He made a bow and said, “Yes, I am Sugawara. May I ask who gives me this honor?”

They exchanged glances. The one who had been speaking said, “I am Yamada of the Censors’ Office, and this is Lord Miyoshi of the Controlling Board of the Left.”

This was truly awkward. They were senior officials whose faces he should have recognized if he had been attending all the court functions. Akitada bowed again, more deeply this time. “How may I serve Your Excellencies?”

“Do you have an office?”

Flustered, Akitada led the way. Sakae, smirking more widely than ever, trailed behind.

“A bright young man,” commented Miyoshi after they were seated in Soga’s office and Sakae had furnished them with cushions, wine, and an offer to take notes. The last was refused, and the helpful Sakae departed.

“I see you have moved into Soga’s office already,” Lord Miyoshi said, staring disapprovingly at Haseo’s sword, which still lay on top of the documents.

“It seemed more convenient, since most of the ministry’s current records are kept here,” Akitada said.

“Hmmph. Naturally you cannot stay permanently. Someone will be appointed to serve provisionally.”

Lord Yamada added, “As quickly as possible.”

So much for his being given the provisional appointment as he had hoped. Akitada bowed.

“Meanwhile,” said Miyoshi, “we have no choice but to let you carry on. But we shall return and expect you to present a more suitable appearance. You are to make no decisions on your own without our express approval.”

They left after that, but the visit boded ill for his future career. They had made it abundantly clear that they did not trust him to run the office. With a sigh, Akitada took up Haseo’s sword and decided to stop in at the archives before going home for a bath and change of clothes.

Kunyoshi was the only one working in the archives. Both the sickness and the fear of getting it seemed to have affected the younger officials in much greater numbers. The others, Akitada included, remembered previous epidemics and had perhaps even contracted the disease in a milder form. For some reason, people only suffered smallpox once in their lives, and if they survived it, they were safe. But a greater reason was that this old man lived for his work. Poor man, he had suffered much from Akitada’s mistake. Akitada raised his voice and called out a greeting.

Kunyoshi looked up and came quickly, eager to be of service. Then he recognized Akitada and hesitated, especially when he took in his appearance and the sword. “Have I forgotten something else?” he asked nervously. “I don’t recall . . .”

“No, no. It’s my turn to apologize, my dear Kunyoshi. I gave you the wrong name. I am very sorry to have caused you so much worry.”

Kunyoshi brightened. “Never mind,” he said with a laugh, “these things happen. And do you have another name for me now?”

The name Tomonari produced happy enlightenment. “Of course,” Kunyoshi cried, clapping his hands. “Tomonari! That’s what I was thinking of all along. Such an interesting case. You mentioned that the land was confiscated because of a crime. Dreadful story. And it did have something to do with a shrine, only it was the Iwashimizu Shrine, of course. Hah, hah!” He laughed with delight, his memory not only tested but confirmed to be excellent.

Iwashimizu was so close to the capital that the emperors themselves worshipped there. The shrine also had special significance for warriors because of its connection to the war god Hachiman. That must be why Haseo had chosen it for his symbol. Things were beginning to fall into place, and Akitada’s spirits lifted, as they always did when he found himself on the right track in a murder investigation. They smiled at each other. “Do you suppose I could have a look at the family record?” Akitada asked.

Kunyoshi trotted away and consulted the tax register for the Tomonari family. “Yes,” he muttered, “six years ago. The following year nothing. Tsuzuki District. Just a moment. I’ll get you the last record before the property fell into the hands of the state.”

They bent over the documents together. The Tomonari family belonged to old noble warrior stock, but most of the “mouths” listed for their twenty-three households were personal servants or peasants working Tomonari land. Some of the peasants owned their small parcels outright and were assessed separately, but most were counted into the Tomonari household and the senior Tomonari was assessed accordingly. At the time of this final assessment, his immediate family seemed to have consisted only of a wife and an adult son. The son also had a family. He was listed as having three wives and four children. It fit. The land consisted of rice paddies, millet fields, and a great deal of uncultivated forest. The assessment of rice taxes was significant enough to make it a desirable estate.

“Where would I find the names of the family?” Akitada asked the archivist.

Kunyoshi pursed his lips. “Household registers,” he said, and dashed off. This time it took longer. Apparently they were kept in a separate building. But Kunyoshi returned, his face slightly flushed and smiling. “Here you are,” he said and placed a fat scroll before Akitada. “It should be in there somewhere. These are all the households in Tsuzuki District.”

Akitada sighed and began to unroll the pages covered with some of the smallest characters he had ever seen. They were glued together to make one long continuous document. So many households, so many names. He found what he wanted an hour later, somewhere near the middle of the scroll:

Household of Tomonari Nobutoshi, 60, local chieftain, rank 8:

Wife: Nihoko, 55.

Son: Haseo, 35.

Son’s wives: Sakyo, 30; Sachi, 25; Hiroko, 20.

Minor children: two boys; four girls.

The other names belonged to servants and slaves. Someone had drawn a thick line after the entry and scribbled in a different hand: “Household broken up by deaths and confiscation of land.” A date matched Haseo’s sentencing date.

So Haseo was finally found. But what had become of the wives and children? No family names were listed for his wives. Which one was the wealthy one who was supposed to have taken in the others? How was Akitada to find them? He rolled up the scroll and went to find Kunyoshi, who had returned to his other duties. “What happens to the family who used to live on a confiscated estate?” he asked the old man, handing back the scroll.

Kunyoshi was not helpful. “The peasants stay, I suppose,” he said. “But the families of the condemned move elsewhere.”

“It’s the wives and children I’m concerned about.”

“Such women may choose to consider themselves divorced. They return to their own family or remarry, I believe. Some enter a convent.”

“What happened to the Tomonari land?”

“Ah!” Kunyoshi brightened. “I remembered something about that. I think I may have mentioned a certain important nobleman who was quite unreasonable in his demands that he should not have to pay a rice tax?”

Akitada did not remember but nodded.

“He’s the one who rents the confiscated estate. He claims that it had fallen into disuse and that he spent his money and used the labor of his slaves to put it back into production; therefore he should be immune from taxation. But the tax office held that he was liable for the same amount as the previous owner because he could not prove that new acreage had been created.” Kunyoshi rubbed his hands. “And quite right, too.” It was clear that he had not liked the irate nobleman.

“What’s his name?”

“Yasugi. As if he weren’t rich enough already in his own right. Pshaw!”

“Yasugi?” Akitada stared at the old man, his mind awhirl. Could it be that this detestable man now controlled the Tomonari estate? “How . . .” he began and stopped. He snatched the household register back. When he found the entry again, he saw what he had missed before. Haseo’s youngest wife was Hiroko. The name was common, but Akitada did not believe in coincidences. The beautiful Hiroko, the woman he had come to desire with every fiber of his being, was Haseo’s widow. Had she been eager to exchange the shameful existence as wife of a condemned man for the luxurious life with the wealthy Yasugi? Or had Yasugi somehow coerced her into marrying him? Akitada wanted to believe the latter. True, she had lied to him, but she had been terrified of her husband.

Giddy with excitement and hope, Akitada thanked Kunyoshi so profusely that the old man looked stunned.

At home, Akitada went straight to Tora. He found him looking a great deal better and eager to talk about his adventures.

“Wait,” said Akitada, “I have news.” He told him what he had discovered that morning.

“What a strange thing! So the sword was Haseo’s all along,” said Tora. He shook his head in wonder. “To think that we wasted all that time just because you got the name wrong.”