Текст книги "Black Arrow "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

ELEVEN

THE MERCHANT SUNADA

H

itomaro found Genba in front of the Temple of the War God, amusing himself by taking on street urchins who wished to test their strength against the big wrestler. He had removed his bright red quilted jacket and was jumping about in shirt, knee-length pants, and wrapped legs.

“New clothes?” Hitomaro asked sourly. In his present mood, he felt neither admiration nor tolerance for Genba’s unexpected rise to fame among the local people. He regarded Genba’s occupation as a liability that interfered with his job.

Genba chuckled. “Presents from my fans.” A new contender flung himself at him.

“Stop that and let’s go!” Hitomaro pulled Genba’s sleeve. “There’s work to be done.”

“Of course, brother.” Genba removed the clutching arms of a skinny youngster from his massive thigh and swung him high into the air with a shout. The lad screeched with delight, his fellows waiting hopefully as Genba set him back on the ground. “Practice!” he told them, waving an admonishing finger, “and eat everything your mother gives you.”

There was a chorus of protests when he snatched up his red jacket. Hitomaro strode off down the street.

“What’s so urgent?” Genba, in spite of his bulk, caught up easily.

“We have work to do. What news do you have?”

“Not much. I think there’s not much more to be had. The judge is said to be in Sunada’s pay. That’s why his thugs act the way they do. Every time they’re in trouble, Hisamatsu dismisses the charges.”

Hitomaro nodded. “Makes sense. I spent hours at the garrison yesterday, talking to Ogai’s fellow recruits. Goto told the truth about his brother being absent without leave. The punishment is such a cruel caning that some don’t survive, so his disappearance is either involuntary or he’s deserted. I figured you could help me talk to some of the neighbors. People seem to open up to you. We need an unbiased account of that fight between Ogai and Kimura.”

Genba glanced dubiously at Hitomaro’s neat blue robe and official black cap. “You didn’t wear your old clothes.”

“Not much point in it. We’re past that charade.”

Genba gave him a startled glance but said only, “I’ll try my best to help.”

They passed through streets of modest dwellings. It was cold in spite of the sun that reflected blindingly from patches of snow that lingered on roofs and in yards where bare trees made traceries against the pale blue sky. Lines of frozen laundry hung stiffly and icicles dripped from the eaves. A skinny dog sniffed and licked the icy street where a woman had just emptied steaming kitchen slops.

But even on these side streets, business was transacted in the open air. Smoke curled from portable cookers and ovens, and tattered straw matting protected food stalls. These were of considerable interest to Genba, who stopped and peered periodically, much to the ill-concealed irritation of Hitomaro.

“Brother,” Genba finally said with a worried look at his friend’s face, “are you feeling quite well? I would’ve thought you’d be over that beating by now, but you look ill.”

Hitomaro’s “illness” had nothing to do with Boshu but he had no intention of discussing it with anyone. He glared. “Seeing you drooling into every pot since we left the Temple of the War God would turn anyone’s stomach. Come on. We must be near that fishmonger’s place.”

They turned down a narrow, dirty backstreet. Across from them was a small wineshop. In spite of the cold weather, the owner had placed a rickety table and stools in the street. Three bare-legged laborers perched on them soaking up the feeble rays of the sun and the harsh and potent brew of the establishment.

Genba stopped. “Close enough. Let’s talk to them.”

“How do they stand this cold without shoes or leggings?” asked Hitomaro, shaking his head.

“Used to it. Also, they’re very hairy people hereabouts. Some look more like monkeys than men.” He sniffed the air. “Do you smell fried fish?”

“No time for food. We have work to do.” Hitomaro crossed the street and asked the drinkers, “Anyone here know Kimura? He’s a plasterer and lives around here.”

The three men looked at his neat blue robe and black cap, then at each other. To a man, they shook their heads.

Hitomaro frowned. “I don’t believe you. This is official business. It concerns a case before the governor. We need Kimura’s testimony.”

The hairy men stared back and shook their heads again.

Genba came and took a precarious seat on one of the stools. He nodded to the men and called for service. “Sit down!” he told Hitomaro. “I’m thirsty. Tagging along with you is hard on a man. Wish you were in some other business.” Turning to the three men, he added, “He’s with the tribunal, but he’s not a bad fellow when you get to know him. Pay no attention to the official manner. I’m Genba, by the way. Wrestler by profession. I’m in the competition this year.”

They broke into excited chatter, asking about his bouts, feeling his muscles, and offering to pay for his wine.

“Ho, ho!” laughed Genba. “I knew I’d like this town. Never met nicer people in my life. But this round’s on me. And if one of you knows where that delicious smell is coming from, I’ll buy the snacks, too.”

Hitomaro sat down with a heavy sigh and waited while the owner carried out flasks of wine, and one of the guests disappeared around the corner, returning with a large basket filled with skewers of fried seafood.

While Hitomaro sat, arms folded across his chest and a pained expression on his face, Genba and the others ate, drank, exchanged simpleminded jokes and laughed uproariously at them.

Finally, when all the fish was gone and the flasks were empty, Genba patted his belly and said, “Well, it’s too bad, but we must be on our way. My friend here has this assignment, and at his rate, it’ll take all day and night to find this Kimura fellow.”

A brief silence ensued. Then one of the men muttered, “That Goto’s a big liar.”

Hitomaro said quickly, “If you want to help Kimura, tell us what you know.”

They looked at each other again. Then the man who had spoken asked, “How do we know we won’t get in trouble?”

“Because I vouch for him,” Genba announced grandly and belched.

“Well...”

“Go ahead. Tell him,” said a skinny man who had been very impressed with Genba’s muscles.

The first man said, “Kimura lives right around the corner. I was there when he and Goto’s worthless brother were shooting dice and got into an argument. Ogai’s a lazy soldier. He picked the fight on purpose. Kimura wouldn’t raise a hand against anybody if he wasn’t forced into it. Ogai kept pushing him against the wall till Kimura pushed back. Then they got into a slugging match. Mind you, Kimura’s no slouch when he gets started. He got a black eye, but Ogai lost two teeth. Him”—he pointed to the skinny man—”and me, we stopped the fight and took Kimura home. We know Kimura doesn’t hold a grudge. He told Ogai he was sorry about the teeth, but the bastard just made a fist and cursed him.”

“What do you mean, Ogai picked the fight on purpose?” Hitomaro asked.

“Well, the dice weren’t the real reason. It’s a family thing. Goto has a quarrel with Kimura over a piece of land. It was Kimura’s father’s land, but the old man couldn’t pay the taxes on it for a few years. When he died, nobody bothered Kimura for the taxes, so he forgot about them. Then, one day, Goto puts up a fence and the argument starts. Goto says Kimura’s father sold the land to him. Kimura says Goto’s a liar, that his father would never have sold that land, especially not to Goto. He didn’t like him, and besides he’d had a better offer.”

“That should be easy enough to prove,” Hitomaro said. “Just have Kimura come to the tribunal and file a complaint against Goto. His Excellency, the governor, will untangle the matter fast enough.”

There was a chorus of angry curses at that.

“Forget it,” the spokesman sneered. “Kimura tried that. Poor people can’t get justice at the tribunal. The judge gave the land to Goto. Seems the sneaky bastard’s been paying the taxes. But Kimura had the last word. He dammed up his stream and diverted it. That’s what made Goto so mad. Now he’s got a piece of barren land.” They all laughed.

Hitomaro opened his mouth to argue, but Genba touched his arm. “Well, thanks for clearing that up,” he said. “We’d better be on our way, but it’s been a real pleasure.” He tossed a handful of coins on the table. “Have another flask on us, fellows.”

“What do you think?” Genba asked when they were out of earshot. Hitomaro turned and walked rapidly toward the tribunal. “Hey, where are you going?”

“I want to pay that bastard Chobei a visit.”

“But what about having a talk with the plasterer first?”

Hitomaro stopped and glowered at him. “Any fool knows that Kimura will tell the same story. I don’t have time to waste, but you do as you please.”

Genba’s cheerful face fell. “What have I done, brother?” he called after Hitomaro, who was off again. Hitomaro did not answer, and Genba galloped after him and pulled his sleeve. “What’s wrong, Hito?” he asked. “Why are you so angry? Has something happened?”

“You’re wasting time on games when the master’s in trouble—and we along with him.”

“Is that what the master said?”

“No, it’s what I say.”

Genba looked unhappy. “All right. We’ll do it your way.”

They heard the sound of drums and gongs and the voices of street musicians long before they reached the market stalls. The market was crammed with crowds of shoppers clustering around acrobats and dancers or bargaining with shopkeepers.

“What’s going on?” Hitomaro asked.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Genba tossed a coin to a vendor and took a steaming paper envelope of roasted chestnuts. “It’s the last market day of the year. The farmers won’t be coming to town again till the snows melt next summer. So everyone’s having a party. Isn’t it nice? Here, have some hot chestnuts. Put them in your sleeves and warm your hands on them.”

Ignoring the offer, Hitomaro said, “If Chobei is in this crowd, he’ll be about as easy to find as an ant in an ant hill.” Cursing under his breath, he climbed on an empty basket to peer over the bobbing heads of the crowd. As far as he could see down the main street with its overhanging thatched roofs, people milled, eddying in streams past stalls and around groups of performers. The steam from a hundred cook pots hung in clouds about them, and the noise from laughter, chatter, and snatches of music was deafening.

He climbed down and found that Genba had attracted his own audience. A small group stood around him, admiring his enormous size and bulk and asking questions about the coming match. Men felt his muscles, and women held up their baby boys to touch him, hoping that his strength would pass from him to their sons.

A dumpling seller was offering his wares nearby, and an admirer pressed Genba to accept a small snack.

“What do you think you’re doing now?” Hitomaro asked testily.

Genba chewed and smacked his lips. “Good. The bean paste might be sweeter. But,” his round face split into a wide grin, “these dumplings are light as a feather and larger than any I’ve had. Hey,” he called out to the dumpling man, “a couple more, if you please.”

“We have to find Chobei, you mountain of lard!” Hitomaro gritted out.

Genba’s fans glared at him. The dumpling man bobbed a bow and passed over the dumplings. “Master Genba must keep up his strength,” he said reprovingly to Hitomaro.

To Hitomaro’s annoyance and the noisy approval of the bystanders, the dumpling man began to gyrate and chant, “Tie ‘em into knots—ooh, ouch!—pick ‘em up, and throw ‘em down—whoosh!—kick ‘em off their feet—whack!—knock ‘em down and fall on ‘em—splat!” He concluded with a brutal knockout punch into the air, followed by a comical pratfall. The crowd loved it, and when the dumpling man bounced back up, they cheered and bought dumplings. With a grin, he tended to his business.

Genba chuckled until Hitomaro cursed wrestling matches and bean paste dumplings roundly and eloquently. Shoving the rest of the dumpling in his mouth, Genba chewed and swallowed. “I’m sorry, brother,” he said. “What would you have me do?”

But Hitomaro had turned his back and walked away.

When Hitomaro stopped to look after a well-dressed female, Genba caught up. “Hey,” he said. “You’re not looking for Chobei. You’re looking at pretty women.”

Hitomaro snapped. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Genba peered into a large pot of soup in a noodle stall. The vendor reached for his ladle and a bowl. “Some nice fresh noodles in my special soup for the gentlemen?” he cried in a high singsong voice. “Best herbs and vegetables only! Gathered this very morning! Only two coppers.”

“Come along,” Hitomaro growled.

Genba sighed. “I suppose after the match, I’ll be put on short rations anyway.”

“Be good for you. The tribunal stairs won’t take your weight.” Hitomaro’s arm shot out, pulling Genba behind the straw canopy of a stall. He hissed, “Duck! There’s the bastard now.”

Two men passed, walking purposefully. One was Chobei. The former sergeant of the tribunal wore a new blue cotton robe, matching trousers, and straw boots. His companion was a short fat man in brown silk and a black sash with an official’s black cap on his head. Chobei talked and waved his hands about. His companion looked haughty and kept shaking his head. They disappeared in the crowd.

Hitomaro stared after them. “Now I’ve seen everything!”

“Who was that with him?” Genba asked.

Someone giggled at their feet. A pretty girl with bright black eyes raised a hand to cover her mouth. She sat among her earthenware dishes and bowls, the owner of the stall they had ducked into.

“Please forgive the intrusion, miss,” Genba said politely. “We didn’t want to talk to those men and took advantage of your canopy.”

Her eyes were on Hitomaro. “Maybe I can help. Which one are you interested in? That good-for-nothing Chobei or the judge?”

“That Chobei!” Hitomaro growled. “Where the hell did he get new clothes? And since when does that bastard keep company with the judge?”

She giggled again. “Since Judge Hisamatsu made him his overseer. That’s how he got the new clothes, and a fine house besides. It’s on the judge’s property.”

“How come that ignorant rascal had such luck?” Genba marveled.

She rolled her eyes. “The judge isn’t right in the head.”

Hitomaro gave a snort. “You can say that again. Chobei’s worthless.”

“No. Really. He thinks he’s somebody else.”

Hitomaro gave her his attention. She responded with a coy smile, and Hitomaro squatted and smiled back. “Who does he think he is? And how come you know these things?”

She brushed back her hair and smiled. “Easy. My mother works for the judge. She says he thinks he’s really a grand minister.”

Hitomaro frowned. “He didn’t sound mad to me. What does he want Chobei for?”

A woman stopped at the stand and picked up one of the bowls. The girl hesitated. “I’ve got a customer.”

Hitomaro grabbed her arm. “Answer me!”

She pouted and freed her arm. “The judge hired Chobei to run his estate,” she snapped. “He said a nobleman needs retainers.”

The customer cleared her throat and glared at Hitomaro, who glared back and stalked away. Genba muttered an apology and put down a handful of coins before following him.

“That’s a really strange story,” Genba said when he caught up. He got no answer, and chuckled. “Your mind’s on other things. You’re looking at girls again. I bet you’ve got a girlfriend.”

Hitomaro turned on him. “What business of yours is my private life?”

“Sorry, brother. I meant nothing by it.” Genba’s eyes were large with shock and hurt. He muttered, “Maybe I’d better go.”

Hitomaro slowly unclenched his fists. “No. It was nothing. Forget it.”

But Genba’s cheerful face had turned grave. “Hito, this isn’t like you. Are you in some kind of trouble? We’ve been through too much together for you to act this way. Either you let me help, or we part company here and now.”

Hitomaro stopped. He bit his lip. “The trouble is someone else’s. I have promised not to tell.” He paused. “Could you lend me some silver without asking what it’s for?”

Genba’s eyebrows shot up. “Silver? When you’ve been putting away every copper cash toward a piece of land. You’ve saved twenty bars of silver already.”

“I... it’s all gone. Please don’t ask.” Hitomaro made a helpless gesture.

“I have fifteen bars. They’re yours.”

“Thanks, brother. I swear, I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”

“Keep it. I don’t need it. If I win the contest, and I think I will, there’s a prize of ten bars of silver and a new silk robe in it for me. Come, now that your problem’s been solved, let’s celebrate in that eating place over there. They make a very fine fish stew.”

This time Hitomaro did not argue. They found a couple of empty spaces on a bench outside, ordered wine and two bowls of stew, and watched the passersby.

But before their food arrived, a commotion caused a general rush up the street. A woman screamed. Someone shouted for constables.

Hitomaro was on his feet. Genba heaved himself up, casting a despairing look toward the waitress who was coming with their order, and followed.

Hitomaro plunged into the press of people. Genba made his way by simply lifting people out of his path until he caught up with Hitomaro.

In an open space in the center of the market street, a tall well-dressed man was bending over the body of a young beggar. The crowd watched the scene, transfixed. A woman sobbed hysterically, but the rest looked merely shocked or curious. The well-dressed man wiped the blade of a slender knife on the man’s rags, then straightened up. Looking about him with a frown, he tucked the knife into his sash. He was a very handsome man, yet Hitomaro felt an instant surge of hatred.

Genba made a growling noise in the back of his throat and moved forward, but Hitomaro held him back. “No, brother,” he said in a low voice. “Stay out of this! If I’m not much mistaken, this is no ordinary brawl.”

Hitomaro pushed aside the people in front of him and went to the body. Getting on one knee, he checked the victim. The beggar had been stabbed once in the chest and was quite dead. “What happened here?” he asked, getting to his feet.

The handsome gentleman raised his brows. “Who are you?” He took a paper tissue from his sleeve and wiped his fingers.

“Lieutenant Hitomaro, provincial tribunal. Who are you? And what happened?” Hitomaro gestured to the inert figure on the ground. “Did you kill him?”

“Ah, Lieutenant,” said the elegant stranger. “So many questions. It is difficult to guess your rank without your uniform. Yes, I’m afraid I had to kill the villain. A drunken lout who attacked me. I’m Sunada.”

The name rang a bell, and Hitomaro gave him a sharp glance before bending over the body again. The dead man had the look of a ruffian and had been knifed through the heart. Straightening up, Hitomaro extended his hand. “The weapon?”

Sunada sighed but handed over a dully gleaming blade with a beautifully made silver handle. Hitomaro ran his thumb over the blade. “A dangerous toy,” he commented, tucking the knife into his own sash. “Yours or his?”

Sunada snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, man! Does he look like someone who can afford a fine blade like that?”

“Then the victim was unarmed?”

“How should I know? And if he was, so what?”

“I’m wondering why you stabbed an unarmed person.”

Sunada rolled his eyes. “Oh, you would try the patience of the Buddha himself! Look here, Lieutenant—if you are a lieutenant—I told you, he attacked me. I simply defended myself. Now get on with your duties. Have someone take the body away and write up your report. I’ll put my seal to it, and be on my way. I am already late for an important meeting. In case it is of interest, the governor has asked for my support with the local business leaders. He will not thank you if you delay me.”

Hitomaro shook his head. “Sorry, sir. There are regulations. It will take more time than that.”

Sunada snapped, “It is urgent. We are trying to find ways to avert open rebellion in this city. Clearly you people at the tribunal are unable to handle anything.”

Hitomaro smiled through gritted teeth. “There are rules to be followed in a case of violent death. And questions to be answered. For example, why and how did this man attack you?”

“Dear heaven, what a thickheaded fellow! I’m a rich man, and Koichi’s poor, as any idiot can see.” Sunada clenched his fists in anger and turned to the crowd. “Tell him,” he cried. “You all saw it, didn’t you?”

The crowd began to inch away. Some people shook their heads.

“You there!” Sunada pointed to a tall laborer. “Come here and tell this officer what happened.”

The laborer shuffled closer, bowing many times to both Sunada and Hitomaro. “It is true what Mr. Sunada says,” he said humbly and attempted to slink back.

“Wait.” Hitomaro stopped him. “What’s your name?”

With an anxious glance at Sunada, the man muttered, “Rikio. A fisherman, sir, from Wild Swan village.”

“All right. What did you see?”

The fisherman pointed at the body. “I saw him. Koichi. He was in front of Mr. Sunada. He looked angry. His hands were waving, and he cursed. Koichi is a very bad person. A jailbird.”

“Did he hit Mr. Sunada? Put his hands around Mr. Sunada’s throat? Throw stones? What did he do? What did he say?”

The fisherman looked at Sunada and twisted his hands together. “He may have been hitting. I couldn’t hear the words.”

At this point, another man in the dark brown ramie robe of a well-to-do merchant pushed through the crowd. After bowing to Sunada, he said to Hitomaro, “I am Tsuchiya, sake wholesaler. I live in the big house over there and saw everything from my upstairs window. Poor Mr. Sunada here was just walking along, when this dirty person stepped in his way. Mr. Sunada was trying to pass, speaking calmly, but the man was shouting and raising his arms. I myself thought he was mad and would kill Mr. Sunada. Thank heavens Mr. Sunada was quick. A great blessing to us all! What a loss Mr. Sunada’s death would have been to this city! I will gladly testify to Mr. Sunada’s total innocence and to his excellent reputation in this province.”

Hitomaro regarded the sake merchant dubiously. Turning back to Sunada, he said, “What is your trade?”

Sunada flushed angrily. “Everybody knows I buy and sell rice and other goods here and in other provinces. My warehouses are in Flying Goose village near the harbor, and I keep a fleet of sailing ships at anchor there. Now are you satisfied that I’m an honest citizen?”

Hitomaro ignored the question. “Did you know the victim?”

“I don’t keep company with criminals.”

“If you have never seen the man before, how did you know his name? Koichi, I believe, you called him?”

“Of course I had seen him and knew he was called Koichi. Everyone in this town knew him as a dangerous criminal.”

“Ah! Have you ever been attacked by him before?”

“No, but as you saw, I always carry a weapon.”

Hitomaro nodded. “Very well. The rest can wait till later. You and your witnesses will follow me to the tribunal.” He looked about, saw two brawny bearers mingling with the crowd and whistled to them. Before he could tell them where to take the body, Sunada seized his arm.

“Are you deaf or stupid? I told you that I don’t have the time,” he snapped. “If I can manage it, I shall stop by the tribunal sometime tomorrow.” Looking over Hitomaro’s shoulder at the sake merchant, he bowed slightly and said, “Good night, Tsuchiya. Give my best to your family.”

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” Hitomaro caught Sunada’s elbow just as the man was turning and spun him around roughly. Sunada’s hand went to his empty sash. Hitomaro bared his teeth and said, “Not this time, my friend. So. Resisting an officer of the law and threatening him with bodily harm? I believe I shall put you in jail.”

Sunada stepped back, his face pale with fury. He scanned the crowd, then raised his left hand, making a curious gesture with his thumb and forefinger.

The ones close to them fell silent and moved back. Their places were taken by men in rough working clothes, brawny men with the deep tans of life outdoors, men with bulging shoulders and sinewy arms, men with the stubborn, dangerous faces of hired thugs.

And there was Boshu, Sunada’s overseer. Boshu had a large iron spike in one hand and was tapping the palm of the other with it. “Mr. Sunada, sir,” he said to his master without taking his eyes off Hitomaro, “we wondered if there was any trouble.”

* * * *