Текст книги "The Dragon Scroll "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

“You may be able to suffer repeated floggings without confessing, but I assure you that your fellow conspirators will be quick to place the blame on you. Their confessions will corroborate the other evidence, such as the painting done by this young woman who was an eyewitness to your raid on the tax convoy. Look at it closely. The figure on the raised platform of the ship is missing part of his ear.”

The man turned his head and saw the scroll on the wall. His hand went to his right ear. The lower half of it had been torn or cut off, leaving an ugly red scar behind. He looked shaken. “It’s a trumped-up lie,” he said. “She wasn’t there. That’s just a picture of a storm dragon. There was no storm”—he corrected himself—”that time of year.”

Motosuke snorted. “You heard him. He’s like a cat protesting innocence with a fish tail hanging from its mouth.”

“In addition to leading the tax raid,” Akitada went on, “you led the nine assassins who slaughtered Higekuro and attempted to kill his daughters.”

Tora called out, “Remember me, bastard? We saw you in the temple garden. And we caught two of your gang that night.”

“Yes. He was there. I saw him, too,” Ayako said in her clear voice.

“Do you want any more proof that you are lost?” Akitada asked.

For a moment, the false monk’s eyes searched the room like a cornered animal. When they fell on Otomi, he jerked his chains from the hands of the astonished guards and rushed forward.

Ayako was still kneeling, holding her sobbing sister in her arms, when the wild-eyed brute attacked, howling, cursing, his chains flying, his clawlike fingers reaching for them.

Tora snatched up the small writing desk in front of Seimei and threw it across the room. It caught the monk between the legs. He fell, crushing the desk. The guards, awaking belatedly to their duty, pounced on him.

Seimei cursed for the first time in his life. When Akitada turned disbelieving eyes on his proper old servant, Seimei glared at his scattered papers, his brush still poised in his hand, ink spattered over his gown and the tip of his nose, and an expression of outrage on his face. After a moment, he raised his eyes to Akitada. “Ah,” he said. “Hmm. Is there another desk? That is, if you intend to continue this ... ah ... unusual interrogation, sir.” With the blame neatly shifted to Akitada, he sniffed and dabbed the ink off his face with a piece of paper.

“Never mind. We are finished,” said Akitada, and added to the two soldiers who had jerked the limp figure of the monk into a kneeling posture again, “Take him away.”

Ayako helped her sister up. Bowing slightly toward the dais, she said, “If you have no further need of us, we will leave. My sister is not very strong.”

Akitada did not know what to say to her, but Motosuke told her, “You have performed a great service for this province and nation, both of you. We shall not forget what we owe you.”

Ayako inclined her head a fraction. “Thank you, Excellency, but that is quite unnecessary. Our family has always honored its obligations to this country.” Without another glance at Akitada, she led her sister from the room.

Akitada sat, lost in silent misery.

Motosuke cleared his throat. “Well?” he asked. “Is there anything else?”

“No. That is all.”

* * * *

TWENTY-ONE

SNOWFLAKES

L

eaden clouds hung low over the tribunal compound. Already a few snow flurries teased the snarling clay dragons guarding the curved eaves of the governor’s residence and danced around Akitada as he dodged the many carts and porters who were loading Motosuke’s household goods for the journey to the capital.

Outside the gate, Akitada turned left and walked to the prefecture. Tucking his chin into his collar against the wet flakes, he considered sadly how differently his great adventure had turned out from what he had hoped. Only a few weeks ago he had looked forward to the journey here, to meeting people in the provinces, to learning much and achieving more. All of these things had happened, but the price had been human lives. Far from bringing him pleasure and satisfaction, his assignment had left him humbled and distraught. He had lost a priceless thing: faith in himself. All that was left was the sense of duty his parents and teachers had instilled in him, and duty to his emperor and to his family overruled any private desires and was, in and of itself, sufficient reason to carry on. The prospect was a bleak one.

Duty had brought Akitada out on his last day in the city. The prefecture, his first stop, was much smaller than the provincial headquarters, consisting only of a modest administration hall, a jail, and barracks for the constables. He found Akinobu bent over a desk piled high with documents. The new prefect greeted Akitada with a tired smile.

“I am sorry that I cannot offer Your Excellency tea,” he said. “I doubt our budget permits such a thing in any case. But perhaps a cup of wine?”

“No, thank you. I have had some of the governor’s excellent tea. Besides, I am not exactly accustomed to luxuries myself. My assignment, along with its honorifics, ends as yours begins. My heartfelt congratulations on your appointment as prefect.”

Akinobu grimaced. “To tell you the truth, I’m merely the clerk in charge, and the work is very similar to my duties for the governor.” He nodded at the towering stacks of documents on his desk.

“Surely the present crisis is abnormal,” Akitada said. Then he sighed. “At the moment I feel that I have brought nothing but trouble to this province.”

“No, Your Excellency. Our trouble has found you. We are very grateful for your help. I intend to pay a formal farewell visit before your departure tomorrow morning.”

“Please call me Akitada. And there is no need for a special visit. You must know how grateful I am for your assistance. I have the highest regard for your ability.” The two men smiled and bowed to each other. Akitada continued, “But there is another reason for my coming. I want to speak to one of your prisoners, the man called Scarface.”

Akinobu raised his brows. “Is he connected to the tax case?”

“No. A different matter altogether. You are holding him in the murder of the prostitute Jasmin. I suspect him of having killed two other women.”

“Here? He only arrived on the fifth day of this month.”

“No. These are two murders of young women in the capital and in Fujisawa.”

“But...” Akinobu hesitated, then asked, “Forgive me, but why are you only now sharing this information?”

“I did not know until this morning. Or rather I did not understand what I knew until then. And I’m still merely guessing at the details. I need to speak with the man to confirm my suspicions.”

“I’m afraid you don’t know Scarface very well. He has steadfastly denied all charges against him. In the murder of the woman Jasmin he accuses his associate, a half-wit, of committing the crime.”

Akitada nodded “Yes, he almost fooled me with that. But considering the murder of the prostitute in Fujisawa and his motive in Jasmin’s case, I now believe it was Scarface who killed Jasmin. On the day of the murder, she told him that she was leaving him for another man. I believe he slashed her throat, then turned the corpse over to his mentally unbalanced follower for some additional mutilation. The second man has a fixation with blood and knives and is dangerous on his own account, but he did not kill the woman.”

Akinobu said, “I suspected as much. What are these other murders you suspect Scarface of?”

“I believe that during the night of the Chrysanthemum festival he killed a young noblewoman in Heian Kyo for her jewelry.” Akitada took the blue flower ornament from his sash and laid it on Akinobu’s desk. “This is part of it. The woman Jasmin sold it to a local peddler, who, in turn, sold it to me the day I arrived here.”

“Extraordinary!” Akinobu leaned forward to pick up the small object. He looked at it, then at Akitada. “I always thought such jewelry was worn only by the imperial women,” he said. Akitada met his eyes and held out his hand without answering. Akinobu returned the flower ornament and reached for a document roll. “He left Heian Kyo on the tenth day of the leaf-turning month and spent the next two months traveling east along the Tokaido highway.”

Akitada nodded. “The dates fit. He must have left the capital immediately after the killing. By the beginning of this month he was in Fujisawa. The Fujisawa victim was also a prostitute who had her throat slashed. We were passing through Fujisawa at the time, and my servant Tora was mistakenly arrested for the murder because his face was badly bruised and cut.”

“Ah!” Akinobu sat forward. “Then there were witnesses?”

“Yes. In both cases. In Fujisawa, the murderer was seen by other women in the brothel. In the capital, he was observed by a vagrant. In both instances the witnesses described a man with horribly scarred features.”

“You must be right.” Akinobu rose. “Let me warn you, though, Scarface has been interrogated without confessing to any of the charges against him.”

Akitada knew what that meant. The man had undergone questioning while being flogged with fresh bamboo whips, a particularly painful, lacerating form of torture. It rarely failed to produce positive results.

They walked across the courtyard in the wet cold to the small jail. The roofs of the buildings were already dusted with snow, and here and there patches were beginning to stick to the gravel underfoot.

A guard sat in the chilly anteroom, warming his hands over a brazier. At a word from Akinobu he got up, reached for his ring of keys, and unlocked a heavy door. Beyond lay a narrow hallway, dimly lit by flickering oil lamps attached to the walls. To the right and left were cell doors, their bars opening on darkness beyond, but directly ahead lay what appeared to be a fiery furnace. As they came closer, Akitada found that it was merely a small room with a stone pit in its center, where a large open fire burned, its black smoke rising toward a hole in the pitched roof, where it whirled away into the steel-gray skies. The rafters were blackened with soot, the walls scuffed and stained by dirt and generations of bloodied bodies, the air stifling with heat and smoke. It reminded Akitada vividly of those lurid paintings of hell displayed in Buddhist temples as reminders to sinners of what awaited them in the hereafter.

Heads appeared behind the bars of two cell doors, one a moon-faced goblin, the other the predatory beak of a vulture. The guard selected another key and unlocked a third cell. “Get out, scum!” he bellowed. “Visitors.”

The figure that emerged from the darkness, rattling chains on its feet and arms, fit the place. Such faces gave the fainthearted nightmares. Akitada, who had been prepared by Tora’s description of the man, took a step backward. The prisoner saw it and grinned maliciously.

In the flickering firelight, the man’s face no longer appeared quite human; the raised purplish scars distorted his features grotesquely. Bloodshot eyes blazed with some hidden excitement, and his lips, swollen and discolored from torture, stretched into a grin that bared teeth like yellow fangs. He stood, tall and broad-shouldered, with an easy arrogance, grinning, mocking, a devil in human shape.

Akitada looked back at him silently, confirming to himself that the killer of Jasmin matched the demonic creature of the ghost story told by the Rat. That murder had really happened, almost three months ago, in another city and to another woman. Strangely, here and now the three murders finally met through an extraordinary set of coincidences.

In spite of the heat from the fire pit, Akitada shivered. His hand closed around the tiny flower fragment in his sleeve. Who knew by what strange and bizarre ways the ghosts of victims found their revenge? The blue flower had accompanied the killer here, the witness had traveled the same route, and Jasmin, the latest victim, had passed it on until it reached the only person who would understand its meaning. But he had come to that knowledge slowly, resisting the signs when they were given to him. He had dreamed of a morning glory dripping with blood. He had received a letter from home, telling him of the disappearance of Lady Asagao, the emperor’s favorite. Asagao meant morning glory. And there had been another message: Akitada’s handsome friend Tasuku had abruptly renounced the world and become a monk. Tasuku, the notorious ladies’ man whose affairs with the women of the court had been the talk of the town. Perhaps Akitada would learn the truth of that when he got home—or perhaps he would never know what had happened.

Akinobu touched his sleeve. “Are you feeling well, Excellency?”

Akitada nodded. With an effort, he asked the prisoner, “What is your name, and where were you born?”

The man bowed. “They call me Roku, short for Heiroku, of the Sano family, at your service, my lord,” he said in a surprisingly cultured voice. “Please forgive my appearance. These stupid dogs of provincial officials have mistaken me for some low killer. Perhaps Your Honor can clear up the matter?”

The nerve of the man was astounding. Faced with a long list of charges and more torture, he was yet trying to brazen it out. Akitada decided to play along. “Your speech tells me that you were raised in the capital and well educated. How does a man like you come to be here and in this condition?”

A shrewd, calculating look came into the grotesque face. “Ah,” Scarface said, “one can always tell a fellow gentleman. As you say, I was raised in the capital. And attended the Buddhist academy near Rashomon. My parents wanted me to become a schoolmaster, but my spirit was too ambitious for that. I took up the sword and trained at several fencing academies. When I was just beginning to make a name for myself, I ran into trouble. My skill had made me enemies, and when one of my competitors challenged me, the bout turned ugly.” The man raised a hand to his scarred face and smiled crookedly. “I killed him after he cut me up. His friends charged me with murder. I had to seek my fortune elsewhere and made my way here. Unfortunately, I found myself almost immediately arrested for the murder of a local whore. Some demented maniac has confessed, but the authorities refuse to believe him and try to beat a confession out of me.” Scarface glanced pointedly at Akinobu, who gazed back calmly. When Akitada made no comment either, the prisoner turned around. His white shirt was dark with dried blood across the back. He lifted it to show the swollen and oozing stripes of the whips. Then he bent and raised his stained trouser legs. Both calves were a mass of raw flesh.

Akitada was sickened. It was surprising that the man was able to stand. He reminded himself that Scarface’s deeds had been far worse than anything he had suffered, and said, “As I am about to return to the capital, I will take you along. The authorities there will sort out the charge quickly enough.”

The man flung about to face him. “No. Don’t trouble yourself. It would embarrass my clan. Only put in a word for me here.”

“Nonsense. I can do nothing here, but I’ll have you on the road in no time. The Sano clan is not important enough to be embarrassed.” Akitada waved his hand dismissively and turned to go.

Behind him, Scarface cursed loudly until the sound of the guard’s whip caused him to suck in his breath with a moan.

Akinobu followed Akitada outside. “You cannot be serious about taking him, Excellency,” he protested. “He lied.”

“I know and I am absolutely serious,” replied Akitada, gulping the clean air and tasting snowflakes on his tongue. “I shall send my report ahead by special courier today.”

“But what of his crimes here? What of the murder in Fujisawa? He’s a dangerous character.”

“He will travel under heavy guard.” Akitada’s expression was bleak and weary. “The crime he has to answer for in the capital will result in a secret and speedy trial and execution, which is more than you could get here without a confession.”

♦

Akitada’s last errand was also the hardest. His steps slowed when he turned the corner and saw Higekuro’s school ahead. Flakes of snow touched his face like a cold caress. He did not bother to take his hands out of his sleeves to wipe them away. As he passed the house of the wealthy neighbor, he saw that its gate was scarred from the constables’ axes, its lock broken and replaced by the paper strips and seals of the provincial administration. How much chaos and tragedy this one small street had seen in the last few days! Akitada looked up at the heavy clouds. The snow muffled sounds and blurred sharp edges. A quiet peace had returned to the street, but for him it was a joyless peace.

The front doors of the school stood wide open. As he approached, Hidesato emerged with a broom and dustpan. He emptied debris in the gutter and, turning back, caught sight of Akitada. The expression of happy contentment on his face changed to anxious concern.

“I came to say good-bye,” said Akitada.

Hidesato’s relief was painfully obvious. He looked around, then placed broom and pan against the wall of the building and bowed. “I hope Your Excellency will have a safe journey home,” he said.

“Thank you. I see you’re lending a hand here.”

Hidesato flushed. “The girls needed some help,” he said, adding, “Tora’s inside.”

This news was no surprise, but it hurt nevertheless. Akitada had expected that Tora would stay with Otomi. He thought back to their first meeting. What he felt for the rough ex-soldier and farmer’s son would have seemed inconceivable then.

Hidesato fidgeted. “Er,” he mumbled, “I’m very grateful for your help, sir. I understand you cleared me of the murder charge.”

“It was nothing. Sooner or later you would have been cleared without me.”

Hidesato shook his head. “If it hadn’t been for you and Tora, Ayako and I would not be together. I’m not a young man and never hoped to find a home and a family, let alone a girl like her. I shall never forget what you’ve done for me.”

Hiding his pain and rage, Akitada turned his back on Hidesato and stepped into the exercise hall.

The doors to the backyard were wide open. Outside, snowy bundles of mats and broken blinds were stacked against the fence. Just inside, in the gray light of the morning, Tora sat on the floor near a hot brazier, cleaning Higekuro’s bow. Perhaps Hidesato would be using it soon. From the private quarters came the delicious smell of cooking.

Tora greeted Akitada with a wide grin—another happy man!—and said, “The place looks nice again, doesn’t it?”

Akitada looked around and nodded. Gone were the bloody mats. The floorboards and pillars had been scrubbed and polished till they shone. All the weapons were hanging neatly against the wall or resting in their racks. “You have done a fine job,” he said listlessly and turned toward the kitchen.

He had expected to find Ayako at the stove, but only Otomi was there. She crouched over a silk scroll on the floor, unaware of Akitada, absorbed in painting the image of the Goddess of Mercy. Akitada’s eyes went to the raised platform under the window. It was empty except for a pair of half-finished straw sandals.

A great sadness for Higekuro filled him suddenly. The fact that such a man should have died when far less worthy men lived was utterly unacceptable. In its own way, it had been as shocking a death as that of the child. Yet he at least had not died in vain. What Higekuro had wanted more than anything else in life had been to find husbands for both of his daughters. He had achieved that. Life would go on here. Tora, Hidesato, and Ayako would carry on with the school, Otomi would paint, and the two couples would raise their children here. Their happiness would soon erase the memories of blood spilled across the hall next door.

He turned away. “Where is Ayako?” he asked Tora.

“No idea.” Tora tried to evade, but when he saw Akitada’s expression, he bellowed, “Hidesato?”

The sergeant came in immediately, as if he had been waiting outside, impatient for Akitada to leave.

“Where’s Ayako gone off to?”

Hidesato’s eyes flew to Akitada’s face. He hesitated, then said, “To the temple of the Kannon...like every day since ... since her father died.”

“Thank you.” Akitada asked Tora, “Will I see you tonight?”

“Of course.” Tora was depressingly cheerful. “We’re just about done here. Tell Ayako dinner’s ready.”

The distance to the temple took longer on foot, but Akitada was in no hurry today. How different everything seemed. People walked about in straw boots and colorful scarves and jackets. The muted sound of children’s laughter came from backyards, and plunged him into a deeper depression. Smoke from cooking fires rose from chimneys, mingling with the white haze of falling snow. His steps inaudible in the white softness underfoot, Akitada felt as if he were walking through a cloud.

The sensation of unreality intensified when he reached the deserted temple. All was silent here. The buildings seemed surreal, a fairy palace inhabited by celestial princesses. He remembered how ominously the dark roofs of the hall and pagoda had risen from the black wilderness of trees the other night. Now a silvery blanket of snow covered the roof tiles and wrapped the curving eaves in feathery white so that they appeared to rise into the swirling air above like the wings of snowbirds. Behind the magic palace, trees made a filigree of white and black branches, silent guardians of the place. Akitada stopped. It seemed that no mere human could pass into that unearthly world without becoming irrevocably lost.

But he had obligations. Crossing the street quickly, he passed between the red-lacquered pillars of the gate into the courtyard. On the snowy ground, a single set of footsteps led to the main hall and up its stairs. He followed, careful not to mar them with his own large boot prints.

She was not inside, though a candle still burned at the foot of the goddess painting and a thin white spiral of incense curled from a censer she had placed before it. Akitada walked through the hall and stepped out onto the rear veranda.

Ayako was leaning against one of the pillars, soberly dressed in a dark quilted robe, looking out at the silent, snowy grove below. “I knew you would come eventually,” she said without turning her head.

“I have been very busy.” He was not really aware of his words, so intent were his eyes on her, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the graceful column of her neck, the way she held her shoulders straight and proud. Guessing at the rounded hips tapering to long thighs, he undressed her in his mind one more time, seeing the golden skin, touching its smoothness, breathing her scent.

She turned. “I have waited here every day.” Her eyes moved over him slowly, tenderly.

Akitada gazed back. “Everything has changed,” he said.

She nodded. Then, surprisingly, she said, “You are still angry with me. And with Hidesato.”

“Yes. I know I have no right.”

She turned away again. “You think that I took him to the bathhouse and made love to him where you and I used to lie together.”

He was ashamed of his jealousy but could not lie. “Yes,” he said softly.

“You are wrong.” She sighed. “Perhaps that will make you feel better. I don’t know. It makes no difference, because you and I are of different worlds. Although my father once held rank, we have become nonpersons in this nation, neither noble nor common. My father accepted this and taught us that human relationships depend on qualities rarely found in your world. He believed in honor, but by his standards even the Rat has honor, perhaps more honor than a high-ranking nobleman from the capital.”

Rage seized Akitada. “How dare you accuse me of lacking honor?” he snapped. “You who gave herself to a mere sergeant who had wandered in off the street looking for a place to hide from the law. How can you think that he will not discard you when he gets the urge to move on? To a man like that you are just a convenience, a livelihood, and a warm bed at night.”

She flinched at his anger and turned to face him. “Forgive me,” she said sadly. “I had not meant to hurt you so.” Her voice was thick with tears, and she pulled her robe around her more tightly as if to fend off the coldness of his contempt. “I heard about the child and wished I could help you.”

“Ayako,” he begged, immediately contrite. “It is not too late. Come with me.” He paused fractionally, then added, “Be my wife.”

“No. It is much too late,” she said. “It was too late when we first met. I knew it, but I could not help myself, and for that I ask your forgiveness. I can never live with you as your wife without forcing you to become as we are. That is why I must choose Hidesato.”

“No!”

“Yes.” She stood, sharply defined against the snowy world beyond, black hair framing the narrow pale face with its strange eyes. Her body was tense, the shoulders squared, the hands clasped so tightly around the red-lacquered balustrade that he could see the bones through the skin. But her voice was calm and very clear in the silence of the place. “Hidesato is a kind man with more honor than you allow him, for he has never touched me. I shall become his wife after you leave, because it would have been my father’s wish, and so it is mine. Together we will make a home for Otomi and a life for ourselves.”

Akitada stood in silence, looking at her. Snowflakes gathered in her black hair, turning to beads of crystal. Then he nodded, defeated by her firmness, her sense of duty.

“You must go now,” she whispered. “Please, Akitada! Please go quickly!”

He stretched out his hand to brush away her tears, then dropped it and left.

♦

For the remaining daylight hours of this, his last day, Akitada walked the streets of the city. From the Temple of the Merciful Goddess he wandered to Squatters’ Field, then drifted northward to the garrison, where he stood at a distance, watching Yukinari drilling a troop of foot soldiers. The captain would see them off the next morning, and Akitada left without speaking to him.

He went to the residential quarter of the wealthy, turning into the alley behind the Tachibana residence. The back gate of the empty mansion swung loose in the wind, and he stopped in for a look at the garden. The studio slept under a mantle of white. At the small pond, Tachibana’s fish rose from the black depths at his approach, still expecting their owner’s hand dispensing food. But only snow fell and melted on the black water. One by one the silver and gold shapes turned and sank again to the bottom. When Akitada left, he looked back. His steps marred the pristine white paths, perhaps never to be swept again. He latched the gate behind himself.

In the gathering dusk, Akitada drifted toward the colored lights and bustle of the market, uncaring that his feet had become numb from the cold. He went down a street of pleasure houses, of powdered faces and smiling eyes, of inviting fingers on his sleeve, barely answering the offers whispered to him. In the falling snow he heard the music of zithers and lutes, the thin, reedy voices of the women and the rough laughter of their customers. Then he walked the poorer streets, where urgent couples ducked into alleys or embraced furtively, leaning in the covered doorways of closed shops. And he felt like a ghost watching the living.

It was dark when he finally returned to the tribunal—wet, cold, and too tired to feel.

Tora and Seimei were packing boxes. Tea simmered on the brazier, and on his desk stood a tray with covered dishes of food. Akitada realized he had not eaten since morning.

“Have you been waiting long?” he asked Tora.

“Don’t worry. Seimei’s been telling me all about your mother and sisters.”

Akitada winced. What awaited him in the capital was the life he had sought to escape. His widowed mother ruled him and his sisters with an iron hand and a bitter tongue.

“You look tired,” Seimei said sympathetically. “Paying farewell visits is always depressing. I saved your food for you, in case you were not invited to dinner.”

“Later, Seimei. I must settle with Tora first.” Akitada looked at Tora sadly. How handsome he had become. He suddenly noticed that Tora was wearing his blue robe again. “I thought you traded that away,” he said, nodding at Tora’s clothes.

Tora looked down at himself. “I decided to get it back. The color and cut suit me pretty well. Besides, there’s something to be said for making an impression.” He winked at Seimei, who chuckled.

“I see,” Akitada said heavily. “You will do very well whatever you do and whatever you wear, Tora. I shall miss you.” He turned away to hide his emotion. Opening his document box, he muttered, “Here are your wages. I have added a bonus for your efforts and advice in solving the tax case. And there is a present to help you get started in your new life.” He held out a package to Tora.

Tora stared at it, making no effort to take it. “You don’t need me anymore?” he asked tonelessly.

“I told you once before that you are free to leave at any time. Now that you have plans and my work here is done, I will not hold you any longer.”

“What plans?” Tora’s voice rose angrily. “You’re still sore because of what I said about officials. And I thought you’d given me another chance.” He snatched the money from Akitada’s hand, tore open the package, and glanced at the contents. “Very generous,” he sneered, then flung the gold bar and silver coins at Akitada’s feet. “Take care of yourself, old-timer,” he called to Seimei and stalked out the door.

Akitada stared after him. “What...?” he began.

“He was hoping you’d take him back with you,” said Seimei, dropping dejectedly onto a cushion. “That is all he has been talking about, wanting to know about the capital, about the family, what kind of house you live in, what kind of work he would do. He was afraid you might let him go, but I told him you would never do that, that you would find a way to keep him. It was wrong of me to give him hope.” Seimei wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Such a short time we had together,” he said. “It is true what they say: ‘Every meeting is the beginning of a parting.’ I shall miss that boy.”