Текст книги "Black Arrow "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

“Hitomaro, it is time to contact Genba again. After that I want you to check on the outcasts. The younger Uesugi has an irrational hatred for them. I want to know why. You must both be quick and discreet and report back as soon as possible.”

They left, and Akitada went in search of his wife. While he would never admit such a thing to her, he found great comfort in her good sense and loving care.

* * * *

FIVE

THE GOLDEN CARP

T

ora and Hitomaro slipped out of the tribunal by removing some loose boards from the back palisade and stepping into a weed-choked alley. Dressed in the rough, quilted cotton jackets and short pants of laborers, they walked to the market, a collection of shops crammed together under the deep overhanging eaves of the houses that lined the main street. Here they parted company.

Tora headed toward the outskirts of town to Sato’s inn. He raised his eyebrows at a large new sign above its open gate. A gilded fish sported on it, and the words “Golden Carp” and “Mrs. Sato, Proprietress” were executed in elegant lettering. As the old couple had predicted, the new management planned to cater to a better type of guest. With old Sato barely dispatched to the judge of the underworld, Tora thought such haste a little unseemly.

As he pondered what this might mean, a lanky youth came through the gate and began to sweep. Tora strolled across the street. The youth stopped what he was doing and stared at him.

“You’re a good worker,” Tora commented. “Your boss is a lucky man. If you play your cards right, he’ll invite you to marry his daughter some day and, before you know it, you’ll be the boss yourself.”

The youth spat. “Hah! My boss is a woman,” he said.

“Even better. Marry her. Never mind if she’s a bit long in the tooth, you’ll be all the more precious to her.”

“Shows what you know!” snapped the youth and kicked the last chunk of horse dung into the road before disappearing into the inn’s stable.

Tora looked after him. Apparently the beautiful widow had not endeared herself to her staff. He crossed the yard of the Golden Carp and, since no one else was about, he walked into the inn.

Today the hallway was scrupulously clean. In the kitchen, he found his objective. She was scrubbing vegetables with a vicious fury.

He leaned against the door frame and whistled softly. The maid swung around. When she saw Tora, her eyes widened and she dropped her radish. He stroked his mustache and let his eyes travel appreciatively over her tall, sturdy frame. Her scowl changed to a smile. She was a plain-faced girl and her teeth were crooked, but Tora could make even pretty girls forget the simplest prudence. And he distinctly recalled the shapely limbs under her dirty skirt.

“Well-met, pretty flower,” he said with a bow. “How is it that you do this dirty work when you ought to save your charms to greet the guests?”

She put on a tragic look. “I’m just the kitchen maid. Somebody’s got to do the work around here now that we’ve become fancy, with a cook and singsong girls to serve to the guests.” She eyed Tora’s patched clothes. “I hate to tell you, but if you’re hoping to spend the night, it costs a fortune and you don’t look like a rich man.”

“Ah.” Tora made a face, but he knew that old clothes did little to hide his strong physique and flexed his shoulders.

“It’s a great pity,” she said, watching him. “If it were up to me . . .” She dimpled.

Tora smiled back. “The old man across the street warned me, but I thought I’d look in anyway. Where is everybody?”

She jerked her head toward the back of the house. “One of the guests is sick and the mistress is wetting herself for fear it’ll hurt her business.”

“Didn’t someone just die here? This must be a pretty unhealthy place.”

“Shh! Not so loud.” The girl peered down the hall. “It’s all right. She’s still in his room. We’re not supposed to talk about it. It’s her husband that died and he was murdered. But she’s had an exorcism, so you needn’t fear. That’s why she’s so upset about the sick one. She was all for dumping him in the temple grounds during the night to let the monks tend to him, but that might get back to the authorities, so she sent for the doctor.”

“And here I am, at your service,” announced a reedy voice from the hall. A small gray-haired man stood in the passage, carrying a bamboo case and peering at them with sharp black eyes under grizzled eyebrows. He looked a bit like an old monkey, thought Tora.

“Well, Kiyo, where’s the patient?”

“This way, Dr. Oyoshi. The mistress is with him.” The maid wiped her hands on her apron, and led the way down the dark hall. Tora, who was curious about her mistress, followed.

In one of the rooms a small group of people stood around a gasping figure under a quilt. Three handsome girls with painted faces and colorful robes, the lanky youth from the yard, and the landlady all stared down at the sick man. So did the doctor and the maid when they joined the group.

Tora gaped at the landlady.

The widow Sato was still in her early twenties, with a dainty figure in a dark blue silk gown, shining hair neatly pinned, skin like pale ivory, and eyes that were almond-shaped and luminous. She was a beauty. At the moment, however, she looked very angry. “So you finally get here, Oyoshi,” she cried to the doctor. “Do something. This person refuses to leave. He claims he’s too ill. Hah! He wants free lodging, that’s all. Everybody is trying to take advantage of a single woman. Look him over and then make him get out. The rest of you, back to work!”

She whisked out of the room without glancing at Tora, who had retreated into the shadows, hoping she would take him for the doctor’s assistant. He watched her trip lightly down the corridor, then turned his attention back to the scene in the room.

The doctor knelt on the floor beside the shivering figure and pulled back the quilt. The sick man’s face was white and wet with perspiration. His eyes were glassy and his mouth slack. His breath came and went in shuddering gasps. Middle-aged and gray-haired, he looked ordinary except that an old injury had taken a small piece from one of his large earlobes.

Oyoshi spoke to him softly, but got no response. He felt the patient’s forehead, peered into his mouth, and then parted the man’s gown to lay his ear against the heaving chest. A rattling cough racked the patient, and a thin dribble of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. The doctor covered him up again and rose with a sigh.

“He’s much too ill to be moved,” he said, pulling Kiyo aside. “I’ll give you some medicine to ease him a bit, but it does not look good. The end is near, I’m afraid.”

One of the painted girls said with a shudder, “The mistress won’t like it. Can’t we take him to the monks?”

The doctor looked shocked. “Certainly not. I won’t allow you to put the poor soul through that, and I’ll tell your mistress so.”

“Tell me what?” The widow appeared in the doorway. “Why isn’t he up yet? I tell you, he cannot stay. He has no money left, and I don’t run a charity hospital. Besides, nobody will spend the night in a house where there’s a sick person. We learned that well enough when Sato was ill. Oh, that this should come to plague me now when the old lord’s funeral will fill all the inns and hostels for miles around!” She stamped her dainty foot in frustration.

The doctor said in a low but firm voice, “This man is not able to speak or stand, Mrs. Sato, let alone travel. He must remain where he is. Believe me, it won’t be long. I’ll leave some medicine and give you a note certifying that he does not have smallpox or any other infectious disease.”

The beauty flushed and cried, “Tell me, since you are so high and mighty about the matter, who will pay for his lodging and nursing? He’s nothing but a vagabond. He has no money. I’ve looked. And who will pay for all your treatments, pray? Surely you don’t expect me to come up with the money?”

The doctor said coldly, “I do not expect anything but common courtesy from you, madam.”

She tossed her head and went back into her room. The doctor returned to the kitchen with Kiyo and Tora. There he sat down and opened his case. Taking out writing materials and rubbing his ink stone with a few drops of water supplied by Kiyo, he dashed off a note. Then he poured several powders into a paper, twisted it, and said, “Make an infusion of this with boiling water and try to get half a cupful down him every two hours. And keep him warm! A brazier of coals day and night.” He closed his case and fished around in his sleeve. “Here’s some money for the coals. Send for me if I’m needed. And give the note to your mistress!”

Tora followed the doctor out into the courtyard. “Sir?” he called, holding out some coins. “I’d like to pay for the poor fellow’s treatment.”

The doctor stopped and peered up at him from under grizzled brows. “Ah. It’s you. I didn’t recognize you before.” He took the money “Very kind of you. How is your master feeling? Still troubled by those cramps?”

Tora’s jaw sagged.

“Are you incognito then, my dear fellow? Well, there’s no one about just now. I wondered because his Excellency had all the symptoms of acute intestinal distress at Takata. You are one of his lieutenants, aren’t you? I’ve seen you about and, if I’m not much mistaken, that was you under all those animal skins that night?”

Tora grinned weakly. “Your eyes are sharper than mine, sir. You’re right, and my master still suffers a little from the same complaint.”

“Say no more.” Oyoshi set down his box and rummaged in it. “Here you are. My own recipe! Powdered oyster shell and ground bark of the cherry tree, mixed with the dried leaves of chamomile and some powdered rhubarb root, along with a bit of honey to hold it all together. Have him dissolve each pill in a little hot wine and take it with every meal. Can you remember that?”

Tora nodded and tucked the small package away. “What do I owe you for this?”

“Let your master settle with me if the medicine works.”

Tora thanked him, then said, “You seem to know these people. Did you see the innkeeper after he died?”

Dr. Oyoshi nodded and smiled. “Ah, I thought that was why you were here. Is your master looking into the matter then?”

“Uh ...”

“Never mind. I treated old Sato when he was ill. Chronic chest pains. Wasn’t getting any better, but should’ve lasted at least another year. Imagine my surprise, when I found him with his throat slit! The maid, Kiyo, sent for me. The lady of the house was away—visiting her family, I’m told. What is it that you want to know?”

“Anything you can tell me about the death.”

“I see. Groping in the dark. Well, I don’t think I can help you. He died during the evening or night and did not do it himself. When I saw him he was stone cold and stiff. The maid threw a fit. Nothing unusual in that. The constables eventually showed up and asked a few foolish questions. That, too, was as usual.”

“If the three travelers hadn’t stayed here, who would you think would’ve done such a thing? His widow’s young and handsome, and he was an old geezer. There could’ve been all sorts of mischief.”

The doctor raised his grizzled eyebrows. “You didn’t like the beautiful Mrs. Sato? Too bossy? Been listening to gossip? Well, apart from the fact that she was not here and could not have done it herself, I’ve never heard anything against her. I expect the widow’s only problem is too much yang.”

“Yang? Who’s he?” Tora asked suspiciously.

The doctor smiled and patted Tora’s arm. “Well, there is yin, the yielding female principle, andyang, the aggressive male force. All of us have a bit of the opposite force in us, which is a good thing, for a female without a little yang can’t manage her husband’s home. Mrs. Sato simply has more yang than most. Mr. Sato had the opposite failing. Unfortunately, such an imbalance in a woman seems to make other women hostile toward her. Much like hens in the farmyard, they all gang up on her. As they say, a good deed won’t even pass the gate, but slander travels a thousand leagues.”

Tora’s forehead creased as he pondered that. “I see, and I also see that she probably led her husband by the nose. Even with all that yang stuff, she’s through and through female. And I know about that.”

The doctor laughed. “Maybe so, maybe so. Farewell, my friend.”

Tora returned to the kitchen where the maid was preparing the medicine. She greeted him with a big smile. “You’re back! Give me a moment to tend to the sick man and we’ll talk.”

Tora moved closer and ran a finger down her cheek. She giggled. He blew in her ear and murmured, “I’d rather see you after work, sweetheart. When it’s more private. By the way, I’m Hiroshi.”

She put down her ladle and turned a flushed face toward him. “Oh, yes, Hiroshi. You’ll be back? Truly?”

Tora grinned and nodded. When her eyes began to shine, she looked almost handsome, though he wished she wouldn’t bare those crooked teeth which reminded him a little of fangs. Her sturdy, buxom body, at any rate, promised a vigorous encounter, and Tora felt magnanimous.

She said eagerly, “I sleep in the storeroom behind the kitchen. Come after the hour of the boar. There’s a door next to the rain barrel.”

The sharp voice of her mistress sounded from the passage. Tora pulled her close and, fondling a plump breast, murmured, “I can’t wait,” and departed.

♦

He spent the rest of the day in the market, chatting with merchants about the three prisoners and consuming a modest meal of stuffed rice dumplings before returning to the Golden Carp well after dark. The gate stood invitingly open for late guests, and a dim paper lantern was lit near the door. But Tora headed for the darkness in back of the inn.

When he opened the rickety door next to the rain barrel into pitch blackness, a pair of sturdy arms seized him. Jerked forward, he overbalanced and tumbled, flailing wildly, into a soft nest of bedding and warm female flesh.

She gasped at his sudden weight, then giggled. “What took you so long?”

He chuckled and explored with his hands. She choked on a little scream when his cold hands found her soft, warm belly. “You might’ve warned me,” Tora murmured into her ear, his hands busily investigating and approving large breasts, firmly muscled thighs, and a smooth bottom.

She gasped again, and tugged impatiently at his sash. “Oh, Hiroshi. I’ve been waiting so-o long,” she moaned.

Tora had planned to spend a little time getting acquainted and picking up some firsthand information about the murder before proceeding to more personal matters, but clearly the young woman had her mind on other things—and who was he to teach her modesty?

Sometime later, when they lay contentedly side by side, he asked, “Why would a nice girl like you work for a mean woman like that?”

She sat up. He could feel her staring down at him in the dark. “You don’t admire her?” she asked in a tone of surprise and disbelief. “Why not? All the men are mad about her.”

“I hope my taste is better than theirs,” Tora said primly.

She lay back and snuggled into the crook of his arm. “She’s a bitch all right. An ungrateful bitch. But he deserved her. After all I did for the old bastard for years, he had to go marry her. He was a fool about that woman. Would you believe, he’d make me ask the fishmonger for free fish bones to make soup, but whenever she wanted a new gown, he’d give her the money and more. How that man spoiled her! And she’d be gone all day, leaving me to do all the work. I was always taking care of him. Even the day he got killed. She went off to visit her family—or so she said–leaving me alone with her sick old man and the inn to look after. And now she’s got it all and I’m still the kitchen drudge. It’s so unfair.” She pounded her fists into the bedding. Tora patted her shoulder and made soothing noises.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “she’s hired those girls and the new cook. You’ve got a lot less work, I bet. And more time for me.” He gave her a little squeeze.

She giggled and rolled on top of him. “You’re right. I’m not tired,” she whispered, biting his ear and pressing her breasts against him.

Tora gave an inward sigh and stroked her buttocks. Their lovemaking had been good, but now he wanted to get on with his job. Still, there was no reason an experienced man couldn’t do both. “I guess your mistress paid him back with a bit of this at night,” he said, pulling her down on himself, “and he thought it a good bargain.”

“Oh, no,” she gasped, moving energetically, “she wouldn’t have him ... and he, fool that he was ... doted on her anyway.”

“Maybe she has a lover.” The girl was so agile, Tora was having difficulty concentrating on his questions.

“Mmm! ... I like you.”

“You’re not bad yourself, my girl!” He grunted and forced his mind back on business. “I suppose she could’ve paid to have the old man killed.”

She stopped moving abruptly. For a moment she said nothing, then, “I thought she didn’t like those three. Made them sleep on the kitchen floor and said it was good enough for such rubbish. But it’s true, they did do her a big favor. Never mind. The dirty old bastard deserved what he got.” She sounded venomous when she said that, and started moving again, furiously, mumbling, “Bastard ... mmm...aah!” She collapsed on top of Tora with a sigh. “That woman doesn’t know how lucky she is! I tell you, she owes me!” she muttered, as they rolled apart.

Tora frowned in the dark. Kiyo had some unexpected attitudes toward her employers. He wondered about the widow. “Well, did she have a lover?” he asked again.

“She’s a cold fish, though she acts the slut with those weird eyes of hers, and men like that. No, making money and buying clothes for herself is all she’s interested in.”

“That night Sato was killed, did you hear anything?” Tora asked, pulling the quilt over their sweat-covered bodies.

“Not me. I had a bad cold. Took some of the old man’s medicine with a little hot wine and slept like a bear. I’m glad they didn’t slit my throat, too. Would’ve been easy enough. Say, what is this? Let’s talk about us!”

Tora pulled her close. “I was thinking about you, all alone with those killers in the house,” he whispered in her ear.

She cuddled. “You know, I could really go for a man like you! And not just in bed. Do you like me?”

“What do you think?”

“Want to do it again?” She propped herself on an elbow, and tickled his ear.

Tora almost yelped. “Look, Kiyo, a girl shouldn’t ask a man. It’s forward. A man likes to be in control of these situations.”

She flopped back down. “Well, if you really want to know, my cold was horrible. What with the medicine, and feeling that awful, I couldn’t cook dinner that night and forgot all about old Sato. I did feel bad about it the next morning and, seeing that the three guests had already left, I made him a special soup, with bits of mushrooms and a handful of rice and some bean paste. He used to like that before the bitch moved in. And there he was, blood all over, the room in a mess, and his money box lying there empty!”

“I bet that shook you up,” Tora muttered, his mind in turmoil. One moment she cursed the old geezer and the next. .. an unpleasant thought took hold of him. He moved away from her abruptly and sat up. “Wonder what time it is. I’d better go.”

She yawned. “You can stay the night, Hiroshi. Maybe after a rest you’ll want to do it again?”

“No!” He was up, straightening his clothes hurriedly. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Tora paused at the door. “I forgot something I have to do.” Then he took to his heels as if a demon were after him.

* * * *

SIX

THE OUTCASTS

A

fter parting from Tora, Hitomaro continued on the main road for a while, then turned off in the direction of the coast and harbor. He passed among dwellings and shops of ramie weavers, smiths, rope twisters, broom makers, and soothsayers. The houses gradually became smaller and shabbier, their inhabitants now laborers or porters. At the point where the narrow street turned into an open dirt road through barren fields, and the last straggling outskirts of Naoetsu merged with the first scattered dwellings of Flying Goose village, stood a small shack. Its dilapidated sign promised fresh seafood.

Hitomaro lifted the worn curtain that served as a door and ducked into the dimly lit interior. Steamy heat met him and the powerful smell of fish frying in hot oil. On a wooden platform a small group of men sat around a hissing and bubbling cauldron, presided over by a red-faced, sweating cook with a blue-checked rag tied about his head. He was stirring the kettle and watching in a fatherly fashion over his chattering customers.

A huge man, a mountain of flesh and muscle, rose from the group and greeted Hitomaro in a booming voice. The firelight cast a red glow on his shaven head and round, smiling face. “Throw in some more abalone, Yaji,” he told the cook. “And the rest of you, make room.” He waved Hitomaro over. “Come and eat, brother. We’re planning our strategy for the match.”

Hitomaro grinned at Genba, nodded to his supporters, and settled himself on the platform. He knew only Genba’s landlord, the rice-cake baker, a stringy middle-aged fellow in a faded, patched cotton gown. The others matched him in age and also looked like small tradesmen.

“May your opponents eat the dirt at your feet, Genba,” Hitomaro said. “Allow me to pay for the next round of wine.”

A storm of protest arose: Both Genba and his friend were their guests and they would be deeply hurt if not allowed to treat them.

The food was as fresh as the sign had promised. Since Genba’s disguise had such unexpected benefits, Hitomaro accepted graciously a share of the excellent fried abalone and very decent wine, listening with only half an ear to their discussion of odds, weights, and the physical attributes of various competitors. When someone mentioned outcasts, his interest perked.

“Totally ruined, I tell you,” the man said. “One year district champion, the next a nobody. And all because of a hinin woman. Those outcast women are witches. You beware of those foxes, Genba. Go to regular prostitutes.”

“I abstain from sexual activity while in training,” Genba said piously. He smacked his lips and held up his empty bowl for a refill. Genba had put on considerable weight since their days of hardship when there was a price on their heads. Hitomaro was convinced that those years of near starvation had made Genba prefer the pleasures of food to those of the bedchamber.

“Well, I’m not a wrestler,” he said, “and I’m not afraid of any woman so long as she’s a looker and good at her job. Are they really so special?”

The short man shook his head doubtfully. “Oh, they’re very handsome and know some clever tricks, but I for one don’t want to chance it.”

The cook chortled, “You’re just henpecked, Kenzo.”

“That’s right. Your old woman won’t let you out of her sight,” agreed another man. “Seven brats in eight years!” he told Hitomaro. “He hasn’t got the time or the money, let alone the strength to tangle with one of the mountain beauties. If you’re game, go past the shrine behind the market. The brothels are back there. You knock on a door and talk to one of the aunties; she’ll fix you up with an outcast girl. But it’ll cost you. A hundred coppers for a top girl.” Seeing smirks on the faces of the others, he added, “Or so I’m told.”

“A hundred coppers!” The little baker was outraged. “If you have a hundred coppers, invest them in your friend here! Women aren’t worth it.”

“Tell that to Sunada! They say he’s a regular at Mrs. Omeya’s. And he’s got more money than anybody around here.”

“Yeah, but he’s a crook. Honest people can’t make a decent living anymore,” grumbled the baker. “The price they charge for their rotten rice flour!”

A blast of cold air blew in and a gruff voice demanded, “What was that, you little bastard?” A burly man with an ugly red scar across one cheek had flung aside the door curtain. Now he crossed the room in a few big strides, jerked the baker upright, and smashed a fist into his face before his companions could catch their breaths. “That’ll teach you not to tell lies about your betters,” he said, dropping his victim like a dirty rag.

“What the devil—?” Genba shot up with an agility surprising in so large a man, and Hitomaro followed. But the small room suddenly filled with other burly, sunburned, scowling men.

“Please, no fighting, Master Boshu!” squeaked the cook, dropping his ladle. “Master Genba here is an important contender in the great match. Mr. Sunada would not like it if you made trouble for him.”

The scarred man looked Genba up and down and growled, “The new contender, eh? I heard about you. You keep bad company. Nobody calls Mr. Sunada names and gets away with it around here. We all work for him. Half the families in Flying Goose village do. He looks after his people, and we look after him. So watch your step if you want to stay healthy.” With a jerk of the head to his companions, he turned and left, his grinning followers filing out behind him.

The baker sat up with a moan. He was pressing a blood-soaked sleeve to his mouth.

Hitomaro looked at him. “I’ll have a word with that piece of dung!” he snarled and went after the intruders.

Outside he pushed past Boshu’s companions and grabbed him by the shoulder. Swinging him round, he said, “Not so fast, bastard. I’m not a wrestler and I don’t mind teaching bullies a lesson. You probably broke that little guy’s jaw. He’s half your size and twice your age. That makes you a coward.”

There was a low growl from the others, and heavily breathing men pressed around him. Boshu’s face purpled until the scar flamed against his dark skin, but he shrugged off Hitomaro’s hand. “Not here,” he ground out. “You heard the cook. Mr. Sunada doesn’t like public fights. But we’ll meet again.” He brought his brutish face close to Hitomaro’s. “I’ll know how to find you, asshole. Not here and now, but soon. You won’t forget this day.” He bared yellow teeth in an unpleasant grin and strode away toward the harbor. His band of toughs barred the way until Boshu had gained some distance, then followed him.

Hitomaro looked after them with a frown. When he returned to the restaurant, Genba and the others were gathered about the baker, muttering angrily.

Genba said, “His jaw’s all right, but he bit his tongue and lost two teeth.”

“Who was that bastard?”

The cook looked apologetic. “Boshu is Sunada’s manager. They’re regulars here. I wish I’d seen him come in.”

“Sunada’s the richest man in this part of the country. Can’t blame a man for defending his master,” said Genba peaceably.

Hitomaro exchanged a glance with him, then poured the baker a cup of wine. He said, “I’d better be on my way before they decide to come back and make more trouble.”

Genba nodded. “I’ll walk out with you.”

Outside the road was empty. A salt-laden gust of icy wind hit their faces. In the distance they could hear the roar of the ocean. Flying Goose village, a small huddle of low brown buildings gathered about a larger compound, marked the distant harbor. The square sails of several big ships and the masts of many small fishing boats rocked uneasily in a choppy gray sea. The horizon was lost in a milky haze.

Hitomaro. said, “The bastard wouldn’t fight. Strange, when you think about it. There were enough of them. I don’t like it. It’s a good thing nobody knows who you really are. Find out what you can about this Sunada.”

Genba nodded.

“Last night the old warlord died. Our master thinks his son is the one who’s plotting against us. Are you sure the local people aren’t hostile toward us?”

“They’re good people. You saw what they’re like. This wrestling match is about the only thing they have to look forward to. Their sons are sent to war with the Ezo, and taxes have made them poor. They work too hard to have time for plotting.”

Hitomaro said, “Tora’s working on a murder case, but you and I are to report anything that will help the master get control. I’m off to become acquainted with the hinin women.”

Genba raised his brows. “Better you than me, brother. Not my kind of training. Come to think of it, it’s not much in your line either. Tora should make that sacrifice.” He chortled.

Hitomaro did not smile. “Well, I have no choice. It’s a good way to get information. If you have some more news, we’ll meet at the shrine near the hour of the boar. I’m to report to the master tonight.”

Genba nodded and ducked back inside.

Walking quickly back to the market, Hitomaro dodged the muffled housewives with their baskets near the vegetable stalls, found the pharmacy, and turned down a narrow alley. The deep eaves of adjoining houses almost met overhead. He had been told that the city streets would become tunnels underneath mountains of snow, but at the moment he saw gray sky above. The small Shinto shrine in the next block lay deserted under its pines. He passed it and found another street of small, tidy houses.

Hitomaro hardly knew what to expect of the local pleasure quarter, but it was not this quiet line of modest houses behind bamboo fences. Neither garish banners nor paper lanterns marked this street as special. There were no painted women calling from windows, nor male touts running up and down the street looking for customers. And for music there was only the solitary sound of a single lute. He passed a fan and comb shop without customers and saw only one other person on the street but reminded himself that it was still early in the day, and that the scene would surely change at night. The lute music seemed to come from the largest house in the middle of the block. At the end of the street, he recognized a wineshop by its painted door curtain and decided that this was as good a place as any to ask about outcast women.

The prospect was unnerving to Hitomaro, who had, since his brief and tragic marriage, steadfastly avoided female company of any sort.

He had almost reached the large house, when the music stopped. As he looked, the door opened and a slender young woman in a cream-colored silk gown appeared. She carried a lute wrapped in a brocade cover and was speaking over her shoulder to a middle-aged, sharp-nosed female in black. Fascinated, Hitomaro stopped. The young woman passed something to the older one and turned to leave.