Текст книги "The Convict's Sword "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

CHAPTER SEVEN

OLD MEN

Seimei brought Akitada his morning rice the next day. It was still dark, but for once Akitada was instantly awake and thinking about the chores ahead. He got up and sat behind his desk, watching impatiently as Seimei knelt to place the bowl of gruel just so and then poured a cup of tea. The old man’s hands shook a little, and Akitada noticed how loose the skin had grown around the frail and knobby bones—as if it belonged to a much bigger person. Never a large man, Seimei had shrunk imperceptibly but shockingly. His face had lost flesh to the point that Akitada could see the hollows and ridges of the skull beneath. He was suddenly afraid.

“Are you feeling quite well these days?” he asked.

Seimei jerked and spilled a few drops of tea. He looked at Akitada for a moment, then averted his eyes. “So sorry,” he muttered, dabbing at the spill with his sleeve. “Careless of me. I am very well, sir. Nothing at all the matter. You know I drink my strengthening tonic every day. No, no, I feel entirely well. And quite energetic.” He rose from his kneeling position with a quickness that must have caused pain in his arthritic joints and busied himself with Akitada’s bedding, as if to prove the point.

Akitada bit his lip. Seimei was much too proud to admit to infirmities. “I am very glad to hear it,” he said, between sips of his gruel. “I really don’t know what we would do without you. I was going to suggest that you take special care of yourself.”

Seimei paused in his folding of quilts. “Thank you, sir,” he said, his eyes a little moist. “It is good to be needed at my age. I would not like to be useless, though they say it is enough to do the best you can and await the will of heaven.”

“That will not be for a long time, I hope,” Akitada said briskly. “You’ve raised me and now you’re raising my son. I am deeply grateful, Seimei.” He saw with dismay a tear spilling down Seimei’s cheek. The old man turned, dashing it away with a shaking hand. He finished folding the bedclothes and putting them away in their trunk. Only then did he return to the desk.

“Yori is a fine boy,” he said, looking at Akitada earnestly, “just as you were. He will go far some day, perhaps even as far as his father. I think you have been needlessly troubled about the future and are still so even now. If you will only look up, sir, there are no limits.”

Akitada was astounded. It struck him, for the first time, that there were few secrets between them. Child and man, Akitada had been guided and loved by Seimei. They knew each other’s flaws and were often irritated by them, but they were bound together by bonds of familiarity and loyalty as strong as the bonds of blood. To a lesser degree that was true also of Tora and Genba. Yori was a part of this extended family, and soon other children and new servants would join his household. They all belonged to each other. He had been wrong to complain of his responsibilities. The others lived within the same bonds and seemed happy and contented.

“You are wise as usual, Seimei,” he said, pushing aside his bowl and getting up to put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. How thin and bony it had grown, and how bent his back. “It is said: The world is what we wish it to be.”

Seimei loved quoting proverbs almost as much as the sayings of Master Kung, and he smiled and nodded. “That is so, sir. Did you drink your tea? Why not take it out on the veranda while I brush out your robe? It will be a beautiful morning.”

Akitada obediently picked up the cup and walked outside. In spite of his exhaustion the night before, he had bathed and shaved before falling into a deep sleep. Perhaps that accounted for his newfound faith in himself.

It was not morning yet. The stars still blinked and there was a new moon. It would be another clear, hot day when the sun rose, but for the moment some of the freshness of yesterday’s rain still lingered and sweet scents drifted from the dark shrubs of the garden. He sipped his tea and found that Seimei had remembered and made the orange-and-honey-flavored drink again. He was a little ashamed that he had never tried to please Seimei, or even thought about him much.

A splashing in the pond reminded him of the hungry fish and he went back to get the remnants of his rice gruel for them. The light from his study showed their shapes only vaguely as they rose from the blackness of the water to snap up a morsel and then disappear to make room for another. Dim shadows of grey and silver, brown and orange moved with only an occasional brilliant glint of light on a fin in the black depths of the pond. He was seeing and yet not seeing them.

Somehow, this reminded Akitada of Tomoe. Had her blindness made her life one of unrelieved darkness, or had she found sparks of brightness in it, perhaps too brief to grasp? She had been scarred by smallpox. Probably the disease had robbed her of her sight, as it did with many it spared from death. Her life and death seemed as dark to him as the pond, but both must have been filled with the shapes of people.

Tora vehemently opposed the notion that Tomoe had sold herself like a common streetwalker. As proof he had cited the fact that she had been invited to the home of one of the good families. Akitada would give much to know the name of that family.

On the other hand, two members of her own class, people who were in daily contact with her, the beggar in the market and the stonemason’s wife, had called her a harlot. Whom to believe? Had she been involved in prostitution and a ring of thieves and gangsters? He could not make that image blend with his own memory of the woman, of her lute playing and her austere lifestyle.

Inside Seimei appeared, carrying Akitada’s best robe and trousers carefully folded over his arm. Akitada said, “Not my court robe, Seimei. It’s just an ordinary day in the office.”

Seimei smiled. “You want to make a good impression on the judge, don’t you? Besides, you have taken the place of a minister and must not shame such an exalted office.”

Soga dressed far more extravagantly than Akitada, but to Akitada’s mind such things had nothing to do with his performance in the office. On the other hand, he really did not want to prejudice Tora’s case, so he submitted without further argument.

He arrived at the ministry behind Nakatoshi, who looked startled to see Akitada so early and in such formal dress.

“I was just opening up, sir,” he said apologetically. “I haven’t had a chance to look over the work for today.”

Akitada smiled at him. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll do it together.” Still filled with the energy of the previous day, he even looked forward to routine paperwork, but his real interest was in the petitions. One or two promised some interesting legal work. He asked Nakatoshi if any progress had been made on the Chikamura claim.

“Not yet, sir. There might be something later today. Oh, I almost forgot. After you left yesterday, someone stopped by and left a note for you.”

Akitada, thinking of Tora’s upcoming hearing, hurried into the office and snatched the note from the desk. It was on standard government paper, folded many times very neatly, but not sealed. There was no superscription. It was strange that it should have been delivered in person. Akitada registered this strange combination of fussiness and lack of formality as he unfolded it.

He did not recognize the spidery hand, but the writing style was characteristic of clerks in government service. Again there was no address or signature, lending an aura of secretiveness to the missive, almost as if sender and recipient were engaged in some illegal transaction.

“In regards to the matter about which you enquired: It has come to mind that the properties in question in the province mentioned are assigned to its current governor. They were indeed at one time associated with the family—the confusion with shrine lands no doubt arising from the name itself. My deepest apologies for not having been of service when required.”

Without signature, identification mark, or personal seal, the message was incomprehensible. Akitada called Nakatoshi. “Are you certain this was meant for me?” he asked, holding up the note.

“The gentleman said so, sir. He was a very elderly person.”

“Strange. There is no signature. Might it be for the minister?”

“Oh, no. He gave your name, sir. I think he works in one of the bureaus. He looked a little familiar, but I can’t place him. A small man in his late sixties. I assumed you had had some business with him.”

Akitada shook his head. “I don’t recall.” But he reread the note, and this time there was something vaguely familiar about it. Name, property, land, province. Shrine lands? Of course. The Utsunomiya property. Miya referred to shrine. This was about Haseo’s case. That business now seemed so far away that he had completely forgotten it. Well, Haseo must certainly wait again while he sorted out Tora’s problem. Akitada said, “Yes. I remember now. It must have been Kunyoshi. The archivist from Popular Affairs.” He glanced at the pile of waiting paperwork. “Please send him a note—no, wait!” Kunyoshi, who was a senior archivist, had taken the trouble to come in person. He could not simply brush him off. Soga’s arrogance must be rubbing off on him already. He sighed. “I’m going over to thank him for his trouble. It shouldn’t take long.”

As he strode quickly along the wide street past the Court of Abundant Pleasures and the Halls of State, the first light appeared where the eastern mountains met the starry sky. It was already getting warm, and his formal silks hampered his movements and made him perspire. The brief respite of yesterday’s cooling rain had not lasted, and the increased humidity added to the unhealthy, sticky feeling. Akitada briefly wondered about the smallpox rumors and hoped that by now fears were subsiding. Of course, that would bring Soga back all the more quickly.

The first wave of senior officials was already arriving for duty. They, at least, had not abandoned the capital yet. Akitada passed through the gate of the Ministry of Popular Affairs, hoping that Kunyoshi was in already. He was. Akitada found him bustling about with stacks of documents, muttering under his breath. Nobody else seemed about. Nakatoshi had referred to the archivist as very elderly, and Akitada, who had thought little about it in the past, now realized that Kunyoshi must be nearly Seimei’s age, though he certainly moved more easily. He called out, “Good morning.” Kunyoshi did not respond but went on with his chore and his muttering. Akitada caught the words, “ . . . told him to put these away . . . I’m sure of it . . .”

It was only when Kunyoshi was returning that he noticed Akitada. His face lit up. “Ah, it’s you sir. I did not hear you. Did you get my note? I left it with that nice young clerk of yours.”

Akitada bowed. “Yes, I came to thank you.” He said it loudly, knowing that the old man was somewhat deaf.

Kunyoshi’s eyes, disconcertingly, watched his lips. Then he smiled. “No need. Glad to do it. Hope the information helps.”

“Well, I did have one or two questions. You indicated, I think, that some property which used to belong to the Utsunomiya family is now under the control of the incumbent governor of Izumo. A Fujiwara, I think?” It was a safe guess. Most men in position of authority were Fujiwaras. Theirs was a large clan with many branches, and the Fujiwara chancellors, as well as the Fujiwara empresses, saw to it that they had supporters in all the key positions.

“Oh, yes. Fujiwara Tamenari. Of course, he does not administer the land himself. Customarily the income from the rice harvest and other products is divided evenly between the cultivator and the government. I assume that is the case in this instance.”

“When did the property become public land?”

Kunyoshi frowned and scratched his head. “Now, where did I put my notes?” He shuffled among the papers on a shelf, muttered, went to another shelf, then to his desk, and ended up standing still, with both hands rubbing his skull as if that would stir his memory.

“It does not have to be a precise date,” said Akitada—though that would certainly have helped. “Can you recall anything? Was it about five years ago?”

“What?”

Akitada repeated his question.

Kunyoshi shook his head. “I would not want to say when I cannot recall. It may come to me later.” He looked depressed.

Izumo Province, thought Akitada. It was too far away, on the Japan Sea, but a rich province and an important one for its ancient shrine to the gods. “Was it a large estate?”

“Oh, dear me, yes. A very rich plum for the nation. And for the governor, who is wealthy enough himself. I must say, under the circumstances he should pay the taxes on the questionable acres. I suggested as much.”

Akitada felt a new respect for Kunyoshi. Standing up to a Fujiwara must have taken considerable courage. “I hope,” he said with a smile, “you have not made any enemies.”

“Hah! At my age? What do I have to lose?” Kunyoshi opened his mouth and grinned so widely that Akitada could see almost every one of the few remaining yellow teeth. Like horses, men in their old age seemed to grow long in tooth, nose, and ear.

Akitada gestured at the many shelves full of documents. “The nation would lose an indispensable servant,” he said with a smile.

Kunyoshi turned shy. He looked down at his gnarled fingers, rubbing them nervously. “Once perhaps,” he said sadly, “but not anymore. I don’t hear well and I’ve become forgetful. Who wants an archivist who forgets things? It’s time I left.”

Akitada had never liked working in the law archives of the Ministry of Justice. It was dreary, dull work that involved much climbing up and down to reach tall shelves and a great amount of dust. Surely this was very hard on an old man. “Won’t you like having time for your family?” he asked.

“I have no family. It would not have been fair to them. You see, this . . .” he gestured to the shelves and documents, “was all I wanted. Just to work in my humble way at something I could do well.” He added wistfully, “But not anymore. Not anymore.”

Akitada was dumfounded. Such a choice amounted to a renunciation of the world just as much as if he had chosen to become a monk. The sages, who knew a great deal more than the Buddhist crowd, taught that it was a man’s duty to take a wife and have children. That rule even took precedence over serving one’s sovereign and superiors faithfully. Where would the world be without the family structure? It was the very foundation of life. Knowing that he had a family made it desirable for a man to work and serve his country. And now this old man, having outlived his parents and siblings, had no place to call home. Akitada said lamely, “I see. I’m very sorry. What will you do?”

Kunyoshi looked through the open doors toward the northern mountains. They were bathed in the golden light of the rising sun, and the distant roofs and pagodas of the great monasteries of Mount Hiei shimmered among the trees. “My life is short. I suppose I shall become a monk,” he said without enthusiasm and smiled a little sadly. “They keep records in monasteries.”

Akitada returned to his own paperwork a much chastened man and persisted until Nakatoshi told him it was time to leave for Tora’s hearing.

When Akitada passed through the front of the building, dozens of men and women stopped their quiet conversations and turned to look at him hopefully. “There he is,” someone in the back hissed loudly, and instantly all of them knelt and touched their heads to the floor. Akitada stopped in surprise. Then he saw a few petitions being raised above the bowed heads and realized that word had spread. His receiving the rejected petitioners had encouraged others to try their luck.

He told them, “Thank you all for coming and waiting patiently, but today I must attend a court hearing and won’t be back until late. Perhaps tomorrow will be a better day.”

They sat up. There was a small babble of conversation until one man—yes, it was old Chikamura, back to find out when he could take possession of his home again—bowed and thanked him. The rest joined in a quaint chorus of humble mutterings. Akitada’s heart warmed. Serving his emperor and his fellow subjects was the finest work a man could do.

Police headquarters bustled with activity. The red-coated figures of policemen with their odd black hats and their bows and arrows were everywhere. Akitada climbed the steps to the Metropolitan Court hall in the wake of a nun in a white cotton robe and veil. He thought that she must be young by the nimble way she skipped up and felt regret that such a young woman should have resigned herself to the emptiness of a religious life. To his mind, such a step was to be taken only in old age or after the loss of a husband. At the doors to the hall he caught up with her and thought he detected a whiff of perfume. No doubt it was only incense.

Inside, they were separated by the red-coated policemen, who took Akitada’s name and directed him to the front of the courtroom. The nun joined the audience.

Hearings were held continuously. Each time a new case was called, the audience would shift and change, as those who left made room for newcomers. Judge Masakane was concluding a case. The prisoner apparently was a thief, and a number of witnesses who had appeared against him were on their way out. New witnesses assumed their places. Akitada recognized Lieutenant Ihara beside the stonemason and his wife, all waiting to be called to testify against Tora. He found a place near them.

Masakane had been a judge in the Metropolitan Court for as long as Akitada could remember. All judges were adjuncts to the imperial police, passing sentences based on the evidence submitted by police investigators on culprits arrested by police constables. More often than not, those found guilty ended up in one of the two prisons maintained by the police. The system depended on all cogs in the process operating in a fair and unbiased manner. But there was considerable oversight and, by and large, it worked better and far more efficiently than the old system under the Ministry of Justice.

Much of Akitada’s early trouble with Soga had stemmed from his fascination with police work and criminal trials. He used to spend too much time observing in the courtroom and, occasionally, meddling in an investigation. Judge Masakane certainly knew him by sight and suspected him of being a spy for the ministry. That he did Akitada an injustice—Akitada admired Masakane’s fairness and acumen—did not matter in this instance.

As the thief, sentenced to one hundred lashes, was dragged from the hall, a hum of anticipation stirred through the crowd. They knew the next case involved a vicious murder. Masakane, seated in the center of the large dais with scribes on either side of him to record the proceedings and the verdict, glanced up and saw Akitada. He scowled, raised his baton and brought it down sharply on the wooden boards.

“Bring in the next defendant.”

The judge resembled a small, ill-tempered turtle in his old age. His fine robe of heavy green silk with its flaring shoulders looked like a shell from which a shrunken head and two small hands emerged and motioned without disturbing its rigid shape. Masakane’s round skull, nearly bald now, was pale and spotted, and a beaky nose came down over thin lips and a receding chin. But his eyes were still bright and black as they watched Tora who, once again in chains, was led in between two guards and made to kneel and prostrate himself before the judge. The corners of Masakane’s mouth turned down in disapproval.

“So you are the person accused of murdering a blind woman. State your name!” he barked.

Tora began to recite his name, place of residence, and service to the Sugawaras. Masakane’s eyes flickered toward Akitada. “Name only! Pay attention, imbecile,” he snapped. Instantly, one of the guards brought his leather whip down across Tora’s buttocks.

Akitada clenched his hands. The judge had recognized him. Since he resented his presence, he would make Tora pay. It was not fair, but neither Tora nor Akitada had any recourse. Akitada certainly could not reprove a judge in his own court. He was thinking about leaving, when he felt a hand on his arm.

Kobe gave him a tight smile and said in a low voice, “Ignore his honor. He must have his little show of temper before he can proceed. Seems to feel it instills proper respect in the defendant and the crowd.”

Akitada frowned. “I don’t remember that. He was always very sure of himself, and there was little or no flogging in his courtroom. Why the change?”

“He thinks people take advantage of him because of his age. Rumors that he’s getting too old for the job have made him bitter.”

“That is bad for Tora.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Masakane will be fair—or at least fairer and more predictable than the others. He follows the law to the letter.”

Masakane, who was listening to the reading of the charges, cast an irritated glance in their direction, recognized Kobe, and bowed. He rapped his baton twice, making the scribe break off in mid-sentence, and called out, “Make room there in front for the superintendent. And . . . er . . . for his companion also.”

A shuffling and rearranging ensued as they made their way to the front and bowed to Masakane.

“Allow me to introduce my friend, Your Honor,” Kobe said to Masakane. “Lord Sugawara is the defendant’s master and came to speak on his behalf.”

Masakane grunted, “Is that so?” and bowed slightly to Akitada.

Up close, the judge looked more human, though Akitada could not be certain if he was grimacing or smiling. Akitada said, “It is always gratifying to see justice dispensed by a superior judge, but it is true that I have a personal reason for being here today.”

“Hmmph,” said the judge. “Well, let’s not waste any more time on pleasantries. Get on with reading the charges.”

As Akitada listened, he glanced across the crowd and noticed the nun again. She was trying to get closer, perhaps to hear better, or to see the defendant. It was clear that her interest in the proceedings went beyond that of the rest of the crowd. Akitada wondered who she was. He decided to keep an eye on her, and perhaps speak to her after the hearing.

When the scribe had finished, Judge Masakane said, “Very well. Let’s have the police report.”

Lieutenant Ihara stepped forward, bowed, and recited the circumstances of Tora’s arrest and the condition of Tomoe’s body and of her room. In the crowd, the nun pushed back her veil a little and craned her head. She had a pale, very handsome face dominated by a pair of extraordinary eyes.

The coroner came forward next and spoke of the multiple stab wounds and of the slashed palms of the victim, suggesting that she had attempted to defend herself against her assailant. He also testified that the body had shown evidence of recent sexual intercourse. The nun put her face into her hands.

Even Masakane looked shocked at the coroner’s report. He wanted to know if the dead woman had been raped, but the coroner could not confirm this. The crowd muttered angrily—or perhaps salaciously.

Tora was kneeling, hunched into himself, but Akitada saw that his fists were clenched on his knees until the knuckles showed white against the brown skin.

Masakane next called the witnesses. The testimony of the stonemason and his wife was as Akitada had expected. The crucial witness was, of course, the wife. She wore a clean robe today and her hair was twisted neatly in back and tied with a white ribbon. She presented the image of a respectable housewife and mother. When it was her turn, she knelt and prostrated herself, reciting, “This insignificant person is called Yuzuki, wife of the stonemason Shigehiro, of the eighth ward.”

Masakane regarded her benevolently. “You know that you must speak the truth or suffer a beating,” he warned. “Now, take a look at the defendant. Have you seen him before?”

She sat up on her heels and eyed Tora. “Yes, Your Honor. He was the lover of the dead woman Tomoe, the one who killed her.”

“Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere. You saw him kill her?”

She giggled nervously. “Well,” she said, “I’ve seen him when he went to her, and then I saw him later with the bloody knife in his hand, standing over her lifeless body.”

The judge frowned. “And between the time that you saw him arrive and the time you saw him standing over her dead body, what happened?”

She flushed. “Why, I’m not sure. I’ve got my household to look after and my children to tend. We’re poor and work hard. I can’t watch all the time. And I couldn’t know he was going to do her in, could I?”

“No, of course not.” Masakane pursed his lips. “So you say you had no reason to suspect him. Tell me, had he visited the woman Tomoe before?”

“Yes. At least three times. She was the type.”

“Ah. What type is that?” asked the judge, smiling thinly.

“Why, the kind of slut who brings men home and lies with them.”

There was a gasp of protest from the nun, but when people turned to look at her, she ducked her head and pulled the veil across her face.

“You say she was a prostitute?” Masakane liked his testimony clear.

The stonemason’s wife fidgeted. “Well, not that exactly. Not regular. She was too ugly for that.”

Tora lost his temper. “You’re a filthy liar, woman,” he roared, “and I shall make you eat your words.”

“Silence!” shouted Masakane, slapping down his baton. This time the whip caught Tora across the back. He gritted his teeth against the pain and resumed his rigid self-control.

When Masakane turned back to the woman, he studied her for a moment, pushing his thin lips in and out. Then he asked, “On the night of the murder, where were you when you saw the defendant arrive?”

She looked up quickly and then back down. “I was in the yard,” she said in a rush, “taking in laundry. It was already dark and he didn’t see me. He knocked on her door, and she let him in.”

Tora made a derisive noise and caught another stroke of the whip. Masakane eyed him sourly. “Well, since you cannot keep your mouth shut, did you or did you not enter the dead woman’s room from the yard that night?”

Tora said, “I did, but Tomoe did not let me in. The door was open. Tomoe was already dead.” He turned and pointed a finger at the stonemason’s wife. “That one’s a liar. I don’t believe she was in the yard. I think she and her coward of a husband were hiding from the real killer. Or maybe they did it themselves.”

The woman burst into angry denial at this, the crowd muttered, and Tora got whipped again. But this time Masakane glowered at Tora’s guard. “How dare you use your whip when the prisoner merely answered my question!” The guard knelt and muttered an apology.

Masakane asked Tora, “Did you kill the woman Tomoe or not?”

Tora looked him squarely in the eyes. “I did not, Your Honor.”

Masakane turned to Akitada, “Since you are his master, do you believe him?”

Akitada was a bit startled but managed to say, “Of course. I have known Tora for many years. He is a courageous fighter but incapable of killing a helpless blind woman in such a cowardly fashion. On the contrary, Tora was trying to protect her.”

Masakane raised his brows. “Protect her? From whom?”

“She had told him she feared for her life because she had overheard plans of a crime. He went to see her that night to attempt once again to get her to tell him the details of the plan and the names of the criminals.”

“Hmmph.” Masakane stared at Akitada, then at Tora, who stared back at the judge defiantly. Akitada held his breath.

Masakane heaved a sigh. “Lieutenant Ihara?”

Ihara stepped forward.

“It seems that the case is far from clear. Do I understand that you are still investigating it?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Very well. In that case, I shall remand the defendant into his master’s custody until you have completed your investigation.” The judge turned to Akitada. “Perhaps you can be of assistance? I am told you take an interest in crime.”

Akitada bowed. “Yes. Thank you, Your Honor.”

“You understand, of course, that you are responsible for the defendant’s behavior during this time and that you will produce him for trial if that becomes necessary?”

“I do.”

It was over. Akitada barely waited to see the chains taken off Tora. He turned to Kobe. “There’s a nun in the audience who seems to take a strong interest in the case. I want to have a word with her before she leaves.”

Kobe nodded. “I saw her, too. Go on! I’ll look after Tora.”

But when Akitada searched the crowd for the nun, she was gone. He pushed past people and started running. Outside in the courtyard he saw only the usual redcoats and a few people arriving for the next case. No sign of a nun anywhere. He was about to curse himself for not having kept a better eye on her, when he caught a bit of white disappearing beyond the gate, and rushed after it.

Too late he realized that he had not even thanked Kobe.