Текст книги "The Dragon Scroll "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Tora jumped to attention. They all looked up at Akitada, who stood clutching the balustrade, his face as pale as the bandage against his black hair.

“I see you’ve managed by yourselves. Did you inform the young women about...what happened?”

“The young women?” Ayako took a few steps toward Akitada. Their eyes met briefly, but he glanced away “What are you talking about? What happened?”

Tora and Hidesato exchanged stricken looks. Akitada slowly descended, supporting himself on the railing. He gave Ayako an impersonal nod and said stiffly, “I am afraid it falls to me to inform you that your father died this afternoon.”

Ayako became very still. Her eyes were on his lips, waiting.

“He was murdered by the men who attacked you and your sister,” Akitada continued in the same tone, “but he fought bravely, killing five of his assassins before succumbing to the sword of another. I regret extremely to be the bearer of such tragic news.”

Ayako straightened her slim body. “I am greatly obliged to Your Excellency,” she said. “My sister and I shall always be in your debt for coming to our rescue.” She bowed deeply, then turned her back and went to Hidesato.

Akitada’s heart contracted. He felt tears rising to his eyes. With sheer effort of will, he made himself climb the stairs again and walk back into the temple hall.

The lamp still burned before the image of the goddess. Otomi’s painting gear lay nearby. Akitada paused, clutching a pillar like a drowning man, and looked up at the inscrutable face in the painting. The lines of the painted image blurred until it seemed to him that the Goddess of Mercy’s face was Ayako’s. The lustrous eyes looked at him with cold detachment, and the soft lips wore a sneer.

He turned away and walked unsteadily out of the temple hall and into the night.

* * * *

EIGHTEEN

THE FESTIVAL

T

he governor’s palanquin was comfortable and elegant, but on the steep mountain road it began to list precariously. Riding in such a conveyance was a new experience for Akitada, who decided that he much preferred the back of a horse. He lifted the bamboo curtain and looked out.

They were in the thick pine forests mantling the mountainside. The bright sunlight splashing the road and forest floor was at odds with his gloomy disposition. He watched as one of the outriders passed the curtained window on his right. The governor’s personal guard accompanied them in the full flourish of polished armor, snapping red banners, and high-stepping mounts dripping with red silk tassels. Self-consciously Akitada tugged at his old court robe, hoping it did not make too poor a showing next to Motosuke’s splendor. The governor sat across from him in a crisp new gown of figured green brocade over his voluminous trousers of deep red silk.

Motosuke also peered out. “We are almost there,” he said. “I can see the top of the pagoda. Heavens, have you ever seen so many people?”

The closer they got to their destination, the more spectators lined the side of the road. As soon as the governor’s cortege passed, they fell in behind to join those waiting at the temple for the dedication ceremony. Akitada exchanged looks with Motosuke. All those people. The responsibility was frightful. Anything might go wrong in spite of their careful planning.

Akitada, for one, was convinced that it would. Everything he had touched so far had turned to grief. He had brought death wherever his feet had carried him. Since their frightful discovery of Higekuro’s murder, Akitada’s thoughts rarely strayed from that memory. Higekuro’s blood tainted every aspect of his present life. The only exception was the memory of Ayako, and her he banished firmly from his thoughts.

As if reading his mind, Motosuke said, “I shall never forget the sight of all that blood at the wrestling school. This Higekuro must have been a most remarkable man.”

Akitada nodded.

“It is a mercy that the young women are safe. The deaf-mute girl is a very fine artist.”

Akitada nodded again. Would Ayako be safe with a man like Hidesato? Would Hidesato take her father’s place in the school... as he had taken Akitada’s place in her arms? Aloud he said, “Luckily I was lying unconscious inside the temple hall when Tora and Hidesato tangled with Joto’s men. The monk who escaped could have spoiled our plans if he had recognized me.”

Motosuke rubbed his pudgy hands together and smiled. “Yes. A good omen. The Goddess of Mercy is on our side.”

She was nothing of the sort, Akitada thought bitterly, remembering Kannon’s sneer.

“Why the long face, elder brother?” Motosuke asked. “Is your head still painful?”

“No.” This was, surprisingly, the truth. He was perfectly fit again in spite of his fever and Hidesato’s blow. The same could not be said for his mood. “I envy you your good spirits,” he said sourly. “Once we are inside the temple, we are sitting ducks, you know.”

“Don’t worry. All will go well. We are guarded by my own men and Yukinari’s. The soldiers assigned to the inner courtyard and the great Buddha hall are absolutely loyal.”

Akitada fell silent, ashamed of having sounded cowardly.

“And only think,” Motosuke continued, “at this moment Akinobu and his constables are raiding the silk merchant’s property and warehouses. When the day is done, we will have our prisoners, the evidence, and the loot.” Motosuke rubbed his hands again and chuckled. “Won’t they be surprised in the capital to get three tax shipments they had written off as lost?”

“They won’t get it all back,” grumbled Akitada. A temple bell began its booming call. The palanquin jerked and veered suddenly to the right. At Motosuke’s window appeared the great gate of the Temple of Fourfold Wisdom, its blue tiles sparkling in the sun. On both sides of its steps stood saffron-robed monks.

“I wonder if Ikeda is here,” Motosuke said.

“I wonder if he is alive. He is a danger to Joto.” Akitada reached for the small silver mirror that hung on one of the hooks and checked his court hat, a black pillbox of starched silk with a loop in the back. He scowled at his long face with its heavy brows and passed the mirror to Motosuke. The palanquin finally stopped and came to rest on solid ground. “Are we supposed to get out here?” Akitada asked.

Motosuke pushed the woven bamboo curtain a little farther aside. “No. Just some formalities to welcome us. Ah, here we go again.” The palanquin lurched up, and both men reached for their hats. Motosuke peered around. “I see Yukinari has posted men at the gate. Clever fellow. I think that affair with the Tachibana woman was a hard blow to him.”

“I almost had him arrested. Both the Tachibana maid and a beggar said the killer was wearing a helmet.”

“Oh,” said Motosuke. “I had meant to tell you, but your illness and Joto drove the matter from my mind. The young fool confided that the lady became so violent the day he ended their relationship that he ran from the house leaving his helmet behind.”

The palanquin suddenly tilted back as the bearers ascended the steps to the gate.

“Yes, that explains it.” Akitada snatched at a silk loop to keep from falling back and crushing his headgear. “My guess is that Ikeda used it as some sort of disguise. I thought something like that must have happened when I was told the man wore a blue robe. No military officer would wear his helmet without the armor.” The palanquin tipped forward as the bearers trotted down the steps on the other side of the gate. When it leveled out again, Akitada released the loop and continued, “I should have thought of Ikeda earlier. He wore that blue robe to your party.”

They became aware of a sound like the buzzing of a giant beehive. Akitada lifted his curtain. They were passing down the center of a large courtyard filled with people. On either side of the palanquin, yellow-robed monks were swinging incense burners and chanting softly. Behind them pressed the local people, chattering and trying to snatch a glimpse of the pomp and circumstance of the arriving dignitaries.

Their bearers, conscious of all the eyes on themselves and their burden, trotted briskly until they reached the steps of the great Buddha hall, where they deposited the palanquin with a flourish that rattled their charges’ teeth.

Egress from the palanquin was fraught with difficulties; first Motosuke, then Akitada emerged, their voluminous robes, trains, and stiffened silk trousers gathered to their bodies, their heads inclined to squeeze out without knocking their hats askew.

The next problem was ascending the broad stairs to the veranda without falling over trousers that extended almost a yard beyond their feet. Fortunately, the waddling gait adopted by high court nobles in full ceremonial garb was considered elegant. Akitada was sweating by the time he reached the high veranda. His inferior rank in the capital had not exactly accustomed him to such occasions. Motosuke, he noticed, managed with ease despite his greater years and weight.

The reception committee was headed by a middle-aged priest with a pale face and sunken eyes. Motosuke addressed him as Kukai. So this was the deacon who had been sent to give spiritual comfort to the jailed Lady Tachibana. Feeling an almost physical aversion, Akitada turned away to look out over the courtyard below.

Visitors, monks, and soldiers milled about everywhere. A number of raised platforms had been erected in front of the new hall, and the carriages of wealthy and influential families were lined up along the far galleries. Screens hid upper-class women and their maidservants from the curious eyes of strangers. And everywhere were uniforms and armor. Yukinari’s soldiers stood discreetly in the galleries, clustered about the gates, and hovered near the Buddha hall.

Reassured, Akitada joined Motosuke for a guided tour of the new hall.

It was vast and beautifully constructed, but Akitada listened with only half an ear to Kukai’s descriptions. They paused for the required obeisances before a large gilded bronze figure of the Buddha. A group of elderly monks chanted softly, reminding Akitada of the prisoners in the subterranean pit. Then a long line of beautiful boys, none older than ten or eleven, passed through. They wore the most splendid silk gowns of all colors and carried golden chimes. Each time the clear tones rang out, there were smiles or giggles from the younger ones. Their innocence struck Akitada as incongruous and surreal as they disappeared into the silvery haze of incense surrounding the great Buddha. He stared after them in bewilderment.

“Our youngest novices.” Kukai’s voice startled Akitada from his reverie. “Their families placed them in our charge.”

Akitada remembered the old monk’s accusations against Joto and felt sickened. The monastic life forbade relations with women, and monks were known to turn to each other for affection, but children? And what of his friend Tasuku, who had loved women all his young life? How had he managed to turn his back on them forever?

When they reemerged from the hall, Kukai led them to one of the viewing platforms, explaining that the other platforms, spaced some fifty feet apart from one another, were reserved for the reader, the abbot and temple administrators, and the dancers.

Their viewing stand was covered with thick grass mats bound in brocade, and their cushions were of silk. A brocade awning shielded them from the glare of the winter sun. Akitada had the seat of honor, with Motosuke slightly to his left. The cushion to Motosuke’s left had been intended for the missing Ikeda. Yukinari seated himself to Akitada’s right. The other members of the official party, several judges and the senior secretaries of the provincial administration, with Seimei in the lead, filed up and took their places behind them.

Akitada nodded a greeting to Yukinari, who looked splendid. His present responsibility had done much to bring color to his face and assurance to his bearing.

Below them an orchestra of drums, flutes, and zithers struck up, and costumed dancers appeared on the platform in the center to perform the measured movements of sacred dances. Akitada kept glancing at the empty stand reserved for the abbot.

At long last the dancers ceased and the music ended. An anticipatory silence fell. Then a silvery tinkling of small bells drew every eye to the doors of the new hall, where the children were gathered. The panels opened slowly, and Joto appeared. The crowd burst into welcoming applause.

He stood for several long minutes as they shouted and waved before advancing to the top of the steps. Here he paused again, waiting for silence, then raised folded hands to his lips and forehead in greeting and benediction and descended. His robe was made from silk dyed in two contrasting shades of purple that shimmered and shifted hue with every movement. Gold embroidery and pearls encrusted his stole.

Two long lines of monks emerged from the hall. Each monk carried a staff with colored silk streamers. Joto, joined by Kukai and other monastic officials, took the lead as all the other monks, novices, and acolytes, in their best robes and with colorful stoles about their shoulders, fell in behind. Chanting “Amida! Amida!” the whole gorgeous stream flowed around the great courtyard and out through the main gate to perform the ritual perambulation of the temple.

Motosuke leaned toward Akitada and said, “Have you ever seen such showmanship? I think we have just watched three tax shipments of gold and silk walking out that gate.”

“There will be something left,” Akitada said, adding grimly, “A man of Joto’s flair has greater plans than a mere temple dedication.” He turned to Yukinari and said in a low voice, “This is surely the time to release the prisoners. I haven’t seen Tora around.”

Yukinari murmured, “He’s taking some of my best men to the storehouses. If they can find the access to the underground prison, they should have plenty of time before the monks return. Tora will signal when they have been successful.”

The planning so far had been flawless. From beyond the temple walls drifted the sounds of chanting and ringing bells. Akitada guessed that the perambulation might take half an hour, considering the size of the compound and the terrain. Still, he was nervous.

To keep the crowd from becoming restive, the musicians and dancers began their performances again. Some of the child novices brought fruit juices to the official party. The boy who served Akitada could not have been more than six or seven. He was beautiful as such young children often are, and when he managed to fill the cup without spilling a drop, he chuckled in delight and gave Akitada a gap-toothed grin.

Eventually the head of the procession reappeared. The long snake of monks wound to the other viewing platform. Joto and the temple dignitaries ascended it, but Kukai climbed to the speaker’s stand and, as soon as the abbot and his officials had taken their seats, began the sutra reading. The rest of the monks dispersed to various positions, where they joined with periodic choral responses.

The congratulatory addresses by the representatives of the emperor were next. Both Akitada and Motosuke were to express their happy thoughts on the occasion. Their official gifts, in the form of rolls of silk, robes, sutra boxes, and prayer beads, stood neatly wrapped and decorated at the foot of their viewing stand. As imperial emissary, Akitada was to congratulate Joto first. His actual intentions were altogether different.

But everything depended on Tora’s prior release of Joto’s prisoners. Where was he? Akitada’s stomach lurched unpleasantly as the worm of fear twisted its coils. Unable to contain his worry, Akitada turned and nodded to Seimei. As prearranged, Seimei rose quietly to make his way to the kitchen courtyard and the latrines.

♦

Seimei walked purposefully, like a man on his way to the conveniences. There were few people in the kitchen enclosure, and he saw no monks at all. Trying to remember the temple layout, he turned to the gate in the northern wall.

The next courtyard was deserted. Seimei tentatively identified the large low building before him as the storehouse with the hidden halberds. This must be the enclosure where Tora and the soldiers were supposed to release the buried monks, but there was no one about. As Seimei approached the large storehouse, he heard a noise inside. Tora, he thought with a sigh of relief and pulled open the door. A shadow moved inside.

“Who’s there?” Seimei whispered nervously, no longer sure who lurked inside.

No answer.

It occurred to Seimei that his errand might be dangerous. Some vicious monk, perhaps a whole gang, could be behind those barrels and bales and jump out to kill him. For a moment he considered slamming the door shut and locking in whatever was lurking there, but he remembered his instructions. He was to find out what had gone wrong and warn his master.

Gingerly he stepped inside. He scanned the long line of barrels and baskets and saw that the bundles of naginata had been unwrapped and some of them had rolled out onto the floor.

Creeping forward on trembling legs, he reached the barrels and peered over them. Crouched behind the farthest barrel was a man wearing a blue robe like his own. Tora also wore such a robe, but this could not be Tora. Tora would not be hiding from him . . . unless he was up to one of his childish tricks.

Seimei crept a little closer. Then, gathering all his courage, he pounced forward, grasped the other man’s collar, and demanded, “What are you doing? Didn’t you hear me—” He broke off in astonishment. “I beg your pardon,” he gasped, releasing the man.

Prefect Ikeda stood up. He was pale, but he measured Seimei’s thin, bent figure and white hair calmly. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, inching along the barrels toward the door. “I was just leaving. It seems Joto’s been storing contraband here. Your man Tora and some soldiers were here a moment ago. I was just making sure they had not overlooked anything.”

Seimei regarded him through narrowed eyes and stepped in his way. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “You are hiding here because you are wanted for the murder of Lord Tachibana.”

Ikeda stopped and smiled. “Oh, that. That’s all been cleared up.”

“It has not,” cried Seimei. “You need not take me for a fool. In fact, I happen to know that you have been declared a fugitive from justice.” The moment he uttered the words, Seimei realized with a sinking heart that he was now obligated to raise the alarm so that Ikeda could be apprehended. But an alarm was the last thing his master would wish at this moment. Drawing himself up importantly, he glared at Ikeda and said, “You are under arrest.”

Strangely, Ikeda said nothing. He just stood there, smiling and seeming to wait for further developments.

Seimei was at a loss. “I’d better find something to tie you up with,” he muttered, looking around. He saw a coil of rope near one of the barrels, but when he bent to pick it up, Ikeda made a rush for the door.

Fortunately, he had miscalculated his distance. Seimei flung himself forward and met Ikeda’s charge in a bone-crunching collision. They both fell back, gasping.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” wheezed Seimei, feeling his left shoulder for damage. “You aren’t getting away so easily.”

“Get out of my way, old man,” Ikeda snarled, rubbing his arm.

Seimei was desperate. If Ikeda escaped, he would warn Joto. What had happened to Tora and the soldiers? Seimei decided to play for time. “I thought you wanted a chance to explain,” he reminded Ikeda.

“You’re a fool,” said Ikeda. “I had to kill Tachibana. He was about to ruin us.” Looking Seimei over, he smiled unpleasantly. “Old age is no guarantee of wisdom. It seems I’ll have to kill you, too.” Taking the cover off the barrel beside him, he stuck his arm in and felt around. A shower of beans spilled over the rim and scattered across the floor.

Clearly nothing good was hidden in those beans. Seimei swallowed and moved toward the door, eyeing Ikeda warily. Ikeda grunted with satisfaction and drew forth a sword, its new blade gleaming wickedly in the dim light. Then he started toward Seimei.

Seimei glanced about desperately and found one of the naginata at his feet. Snatching it up, he staggered under its weight. He had no idea how to use this long pole with the sharp blade at its end but thought that it was meant for stabbing or slashing an enemy from a safe distance. Since Ikeda’s sword was much shorter, the naginata would give him an advantage. Unfortunately, it was too heavy for him. As he watched Ikeda approach, the long pole tipped and wobbled in his grasp.

Ikeda sneered, “What are you trying to do with that, old man?”

Seimei gripped the naginata tightly. He tried to recall some of the moves he had watched during his master’s stick-fighting practice. If he could not slash or stab, perhaps he could at least hit or whirl around.

Grasping the pole with both hands, Seimei hopped aside a few steps, slid on some beans, and sat down hard on the floor. Ikeda laughed. Seimei, flushed with anger, scrambled up. Gathering all his strength, he swung the halberd back in a wide sweep. To his surprise, the force of this motion and the weight of the weapon spun him around like a top. He staggered, stopped dizzily, and looked for Ikeda.

Ikeda, who had watched, round-eyed, now burst into gales of laughter, doubling over with hilarity.

This was too much for Seimei. Heaving up the halberd, he charged.

Ikeda stopped laughing and jumped out of the way. He raised his sword, but at that moment someone stepped into the doorway, blocking the light. Ikeda turned his head.

Seimei awkwardly corrected his aim and brought the naginata down with all his force. It caught Ikeda’s head with the wooden pole instead of the sharp blade and knocked him to the floor, where he lay, limp as a sack of grain, a trickle of blood seeping from his nostrils.

“Holy Buddha!” gasped a voice. “Did my eyes trick me or is that you, Seimei?”

Seimei dropped the halberd from his slack fingers. “Tora,” he whispered. “Where have you been? I... had to knock him out. He was about to kill me.” Suddenly faint, he sat down on a barrel. “The master sent me to see if everything was all right. You weren’t around, but I found him.” He looked at Ikeda’s inert form and shuddered.

“By the great Amida,” Tora said, “that was the finest thing I ever saw. Who would’ve thought you had it in you? Let me congratulate you.” He bent, seized Seimei’s limp figure in a bear hug, and lifted him off the barrel.

“Let me go.” Seimei kicked his shins. “Tie him up quick or he’ll come around.”

Setting him back down, Tora said, “Well, you can tell the master we got the prisoners out.” He walked over to Ikeda and gave him a kick in the ribs. When this produced no results, he bent to put a hand to the other man’s throat. “Looks like you killed the murdering rat,” he said, straightening up. “You used that naginata like a born soldier. How come you never let on that you know about fighting?”

Seimei had blanched. “He’s dead?” His eyes went to the dead man’s face and he felt his stomach rise into his throat. “I must get back,” he mumbled and made for the door. Outside, knees shaking, he vomited.

Tora followed, still grinning, Ikeda’s sword in his hand. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “They hid the swords in those beans, and we missed them.”

Seimei shuddered. “Let’s lock up and go,” he said, dabbing at his mouth with a sleeve.

Tora slammed the door shut. “You’d better go first,” he said, suddenly grave. “I’ll give the fellows a hand with those poor wretches.”

Seimei looked across the yard and saw five or six of Yukinari’s soldiers carrying or supporting several filthy, ragged creatures who looked more like walking skeletons than living human beings. “Oh, how pitiful,” he cried, his own encounter with death momentarily forgotten. “Yes, go help them.”

He walked back unsteadily, sick at the thought of having killed a man.

♦

Akitada gathered his robe and rose. The winter air felt cold on his perspiring face. On the abbot’s stand, Joto was speaking to an agitated monk. The monk looked like the brute with the deformed ear who had swaggered across the market with his tough-looking companions on their first day here. Joto looked across at Akitada, and the other man’s glance, in equal parts triumph and mockery, felt like a physical attack.

A movement near the gate meant that Yukinari’s soldiers prepared to block all the exits. Below him the governor’s guard drew closer to their platform. It was time. Akitada must go forward with the plan or lose his only chance.

One of the guardsmen marched up with the imperial banner and stood directly below him. Joto was watching the soldiers now, clearly puzzled by their behavior. The crowd began to whisper and hum, and Akitada was in an agony of indecision.

Then Seimei emerged from among the spectators. The old man looked up and nodded. Still Akitada held his breath. After a moment, Yukinari rose behind him and left the viewing stand. It had begun.

Gradually silence fell over the courtyard. Akitada pulled from his sleeve the imperial decree and raised it above his head so that everyone could see the golden seals and purple cords. Below a drum began its rhythmic beat.

“Prepare to hear the august words!” thundered the banner bearer.

The people in the courtyard fell to their knees and bowed to the ground.

Akitada read the imperial instructions, which gave him the power to investigate and prosecute, in a reasonably steady voice. Then he rolled up the scroll and said, “You may rise. The investigation I was charged with is complete. The villains who raided three tax shipments and brutally murdered those who guarded them are known.”

A ripple of excitement passed through the crowd.

Akitada looked across to the other platform and faltered. Kukai was there, but Joto had disappeared. Suppressing this new worry, he said, “The guilty are hidden in this temple.” After outlining the case against Joto and his supporters, he paused.

They had listened in silent shock, but now panic spread through the crowd. Some of the monks tried to leave and were restrained by soldiers. Minor scuffles broke out.

“Silence!” the banner man thundered. It had little effect.

Motosuke came to stand beside Akitada, his face tense and serious. And then, finally, Akitada saw Yukinari and next to him Tora. Yukinari raised an arm, and a double line of soldiers marched forward. The crowd fell back, suddenly quiet when they saw the sad, pitifully small group of released monks. Two of Yukinari’s men brought up the rear carrying the abbot on a stretcher. More soldiers followed them.

The imprisoned monks were covered with filth and sores and staggered from weakness, shading their eyes against the sun. When they reached Akitada’s stand and the soldiers set down the stretcher with the semiconscious abbot, the crowd had become still.

“There you see how Joto treated the temple’s holy men,” Akitada told them. “As His August Majesty’s representative and with your support and that of your governor, I shall see to it that justice returns to the people of this province and to this temple. Joto, his deputy Kukai, and all their accomplices are under arrest.”

A soft moan went through the crowd. Many had lost relatives with the tax convoys.

Suddenly a shout came from the other platform. Kukai stood there, his arms raised. “Don’t trust the enemies of Buddha. They have come to destroy the true faith and cast you back into poverty. This is a plot to get rid of our holy abbot.” He swung around and pointed an accusing finger at Akitada and Motosuke. “There are your criminals! There is the man who has kept your hard-earned taxes to fill his own chests and buy his daughter a place as the emperor’s concubine. There is the official sent from the capital to hide the crimes of the nobles under the mantle of official sanction. He even uses a sick and senile monk against us. Are you going to permit this evil thing to happen, or are you going to defend your faith?”

The crowd wavered. Somewhere a woman screamed. The soldiers sprang into action, and the sea of people began to roil like boiling water. Aghast, Akitada attempted to raise his voice again, but it failed him. Motosuke shouted, “In the name of the emperor, clear the courtyard!” The banner bearer below repeated, “Clear the courtyard!” Motosuke bellowed, “Return to your homes to mourn the deaths of your sons and fathers, your brothers and husbands, who were foully massacred by Joto and his followers, and leave the authorities to bring justice to this province!”

For a moment the outcome hung in the balance, then a woman’s voice began to wail softly. Others joined her. The crowd broke part. People on the periphery headed for the gate. Those who had pressed forward fell back. Soldiers dispersed groups and rounded up monks.

Tucking the imperial decree back into his sleeve, Akitada turned and sat down, his hands and knees shaking. Motosuke watched a moment longer, then joined him. They were both silent. Yukinari was in the crowd, directing his men. Provincial guardsmen escorted women and children through the gate. As the courtyard cleared, the soldiers began to herd the monks into one corner. Yukinari and his men were placing Kukai and Joto’s staff under arrest. There was still no sign of Joto.

Then Seimei stumbled to them. Akitada rose and asked, “Seimei, are you ill?”

Seimei wiped his face with a shaking hand. “No, sir. I... I caught Ikeda ... I had to kill him, or he would have warned the abbot.”

Motosuke gaped. “You killed Ikeda? By yourself?”

“I couldn’t help it, sir. I struck him on the head with a halberd.” Seimei shuddered. “I never killed a man before. It was horribly easy. May the gods forgive me.”

Akitada put an arm around his shoulders. “You did what had to be done. We are grateful,” he said. “Ikeda was a killer and a traitor. If you had not stopped him, many innocent people would have died today. Thanks to you, we stopped a dangerous conspiracy.”

“Indeed, indeed,” said Motosuke, patting Seimei’s back. “What courage! You will be the talk of the town. And I shall mention you in my report to the emperor.”