Текст книги "The Emperor's Woman"

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Out of Work

The remnants of Saburo’s savings were almost gone after he bought himself some decent clothes to replace those he had left behind. He spent most of his money on a plain gray robe of good ramie, adding an inexpensive pair of narrow cotton trousers and a black sash. It seemed like a foolish expenditure for a man without income, but he hoped it would help him find employment as a scribe.

The four years he had spent in the Sugawara household had changed him. He no longer tolerated the free and easy vagrant’s life he had led before, picking up a few coppers here and there, tossed by people who averted their eyes in disgust and pity. He also no longer could face sleeping in dirty alleyways or rubbing shoulders with robbers in hopes they might offer a share in their loot for information.

He had told the literal truth when he assured Akitada he was no thief. He had never stolen anything, but he had helped those who did steal and had sometimes shared in their success. But he did not want to return to those days.

What he had done to help Genba had been another matter, though he understood his master’s anger and accepted his dismissal as fair. But he would do it again. He would do it for friendship, as one friend for another—because to a man like Saburo having a friend was more precious than all the gold in the world.

Unfortunately, he had made things worse for his friend, and he must try to fix that.

He walked to one of the southern wards of the capital where he knew of several cheap hostels for travelers, but his first objective was a small, ramshackle house that took in lodgers.

The widow who owned the house was an acquaintance. She had seen worse things in her long life than Saburo’s disfigured face. As one of the women paid by the authorities to clean abandoned corpses before burial or cremation, she had dealt with the bodies of newborn babies, diseased beggars, abused women, and tortured youths. Almost all of them had died by one form of violence or another. Saburo’s face did not shock her.

She was too old and too fat now for such work and eked out her existence by renting out two rooms to poor laborers. She only rented to men, having found women more trouble than help. Women brought drunken men home with them, and those were likely to beat the woman and destroy a room in a rage over inadequate service or stolen money.

Saburo had helped her once when a couple of young hoodlums had taunted her. One look at Saburo’s face had sent the youths running. She had thanked him. They had chatted briefly, exchanging interesting facts about their past lives.

Now he knocked at her door with his bundles under his arm. She opened, blinked, then gave him a toothless smile. “Oh, is it you, Saburo? You startled me. You look well.” She peered more closely after she said this. “Maybe just a little peeked.”

Saburo’s heart warmed to her, and he smiled his crooked smile. In truth, he had been feeling low—very low– but the reason for that was his dismissal. He had been almost happy until then.

“Thank you, Mrs. Komiya. I’m quite healthy. I wondered if you might have a room for me.”

“You need a room?” She hesitated just a moment, then nodded. “For you, yes.”

“How much?”

“Ten coppers a week, but you got to keep it clean and you got to lend a hand sometimes. I’m getting old and can’t climb ladders anymore or lift heavy things. My lodgers always help me.”

He bowed. “A pleasure, dear lady.”

That made her smile again. “Well, come in then and take a look.”

The room was a mere cubby hole, just large enough for him to stretch out at night if he put his head on his bundle of possessions, but it was clean and had a separate door that led to a small vegetable patch in back of the poor little house.

Saburo deposited his bundle and shook out his new robe and trousers, draping them over an exposed rafter to smooth out the wrinkles.

“Oh my,” his landlady said. “How very fine you are! Are you sure this room is good enough?”

Saburo counted out ten coppers and passed them to her. “I’m very poor. These clothes will help me find work as a scribe. If you’ll have me, I’m content.”

“A scribe?” She tucked away the money and made him a little bow. “I’m honored, Master Saburo.”

And so it was a bargain.

Saburo asked if she needed help with anything. This pleased her. She gave him two wooden buckets and directions to a well where he could get water.

Saburo found the well, but he frightened several women and children away with his face. This brought back his depression.

Fetching water was women’s work, but Saburo was long past being proud, and hauled up the water, filled his buckets and carried them back.

Having satisfied his bargain for the time being, he changed into his new clothes, retied his topknot, and set out for the city offices. There he applied for work as a scribe. His clothes got him into the office of one of the senior scribes, but there he was turned away. The man saw his face and shook his head. “Can’t have you frightening the public away,” he said. “And can’t have you working in the back because everyone will come to stare at you. Sorry, but we serve the people and must make allowances.”

Saburo did not remind him that he, too, was people. He nodded and left. During the rest of the day, he visited several other public offices with no better results. Eventually, exhaustion drove him back to Mrs. Komiya’s to sleep.

The next morning, he started the process all over again. Again he was turned away. His money was almost gone, and he skipped both his morning and midday meals. He was beginning to feel quite faint when it was getting dark and turned toward the merchant quarter, thinking to buy a cheap bowl of noodles in the market before returning to his new home.

When he took a shortcut down an alley between two streets of merchants’ houses, he passed the back of a rice dealer’s business. Loud curses and a crash reached his ears, and he stopped, stepped on a barrel, and peered over the wall. He could see across a courtyard piled high with equipment, past open shutters into a room lit by an oil lamp. A middle-aged man was hopping about holding his foot and damning all the devils of hell. Saburo grinned. Apparently he had kicked his desk out the open doors.

He guessed the man must be the owner of the business. No employee would dare treat his master’s furniture in this fashion. The merchant was portly and well dressed, and he had probably been working at the desk that now lay broken outside. Papers, a large account book, writing utensils, and an abacus also lay strewn about. Saburo took a chance.

“What seems to be your problem, friend?” he asked.

The man stopped hopping and peered into the darkness. With a scowl he asked, “What’s it to you?”

“I was passing on my way to the market and heard you. If it’s bookkeeping that makes you angry, I’m a bookkeeper. Maybe I can help.”

The man squinted, and Saburo realized he had weak eyes. “My advice is free, if you don’t mind my face,” he added.

“Why should I care what you look like?” the merchant said ungraciously. “There’s a gate at the corner. Mind you, I’m not paying you.”

“I said it’s free.” The gate was low and only latched from the inside. Anyone with a long enough arm could get in. Saburo’s arms were quite long enough. He crossed the yard and stopped to pick up the desk and the broken leg.

In the room, the merchant gaped at him. “Dear heaven,” he gasped. “You weren’t kidding about your face. What happened to you?”

Saburo gave him one of the abbreviated versions. In this one, he had been tortured by a group of robbers who had hoped to find the hiding place of his master’s gold.”

“Did you tell them?”

“No. I sent them off to another place. I knew the constables would catch them there.”

“You escaped? You must’ve been barely alive.” Fascinated, the merchant studied the disfiguring scars.

“Yes.” Saburo set down the desk and propped up the edge missing the leg with a couple of ledgers. “Let me have a look at your accounts. What was wrong with them?”

“I caught my clerk, the young demon, in bed with my daughter and threw him out. Now I can’t make heads or tails of my books.”

Saburo nodded and picked up the account book. Gathering the writing utensils and placing everything on the desk, he said, “Could you bring some water, please?”

The merchant padded off.

Saburo frowned over the scribbling of his predecessor. When the merchant came back with the water, Saburo mixed fresh ink and said, “Your clerk’s been stealing more from you than your daughter.”

The fat merchant’s jaw dropped. “How?”

Saburo showed him in entries. “Here and here.” He reached for the abacus and started adding sums. “My guess is he took about twenty pieces of silver last month.”

The merchant gasped. “I’ll kill him.”

Saburo grunted. “Where are the new figures?”

The man gathered some of the fallen papers and sorted them. He had to dictate the figures to Saburo, who entered the new information neatly, added, subtracted, and showed the result. “I might take the job,” he said.

The merchant looked at the neat handwriting and nodded. Then he looked at Saburo’s face and nodded again. “Why not,” he said. “My daughter won’t give you a second glance, and if you work out, I’ll pay you a silver piece every other week.”

It wasn’t much, but Saburo agreed. “I’ll be here tomorrow to record the new transactions.”

“That will take only a few hours’ work,” the merchant protested.

“Take it or leave it,” Saburo said, getting to his feet. “And I expect to eat here.”

The man hesitated. “We can try it,” he finally said grudgingly.

“Good. I’m Saburo, and you?”

“Sosuke. You’ll be back tomorrow?”

Saburo nodded and left quickly by the alley gate.

Greatly cheered at having thus settled the problem of his lodging and income, Saburo continued to the market where he splurged on a meal of fried sea bream and vegetables accompanied by wine. Even the fact that the waiter seated him in a dark corner did not affect his contentment.

As he ate and drank, slowly and with enjoyment, he considered his options. The shock of being dismissed so quickly and bluntly after four years of service had not lasted long. He had been afraid it would happen. In fact, it might have happened much earlier. Saburo had always known that Sugawara Akitada, for all his generous and fair demeanor, had an absolutely rigid interpretation of the law. He had accepted it as part of his lordship’s profession—much in the way in which breaking into people’s homes and spying on them was part of his.

What had hurt was the fact that Saburo had tried to help Genba, and his erstwhile master had not acknowledged that. If he was to serve a man like Lord Sugawara, he should be able to use the skills that were available to him to protect the members of his family.

But here he was, and Genba and his girlfriend were still in jail. And Lord Sugawara was still at odds with Superintendent Kobe of the police. These problems must be corrected.

Saburo swallowed his last bite of fish (it had been a most delicious sea bream) and finished the last of the rice, moistened with the rest of the wine, then smacked his lips. He would not be able to live like this again for a long time. What the merchant paid him would just cover his rent and a few meals bought from noodle sellers and dumpling bakers. He needed his spare time to look for the mysterious man who had attacked him and taken the contracts.

This stranger was someone like himself, though much more dangerous. The long needle he had carried meant he was not just a spy. Saburo had never been asked to kill anyone, but he and the stranger had probably received similar training. The fact that this man had dropped the needle when he had tangled with Genba in the alley near Tokuzo’s brothel suggested he was there because someone had hired him to kill Tokuzo. He had carried out his assignment but, having lost the needle, he had used cruder methods. A needle inserted through a man’s ear or nostril into his brain would have caused an undetectable wound or something like a nosebleed. The death would have been blamed on an accident or some mysterious illness. Instead, the assassin had provoked a murder investigation by the police.

Why, then, had he returned to the scene of his crime to get the contracts? It made no sense.

Saburo paid the waiter, who was barely civil, conveying the message that he was not welcome in the future. Saburo refrained from giving the man a tip, and left, hearing “Hope you rot, you ugly devil!” behind his back.

It was night, but he felt strengthened by his meal and thought the time right for a visit to the beggars’ guild. He returned to his lodging where he took off his new clothes, hanging them again carefully over an exposed rafter. Then he undid his bundle and took out his black pants and shirt. He missed the old brown jacket he had left outside the brothel that night, but there was no point in going back for it. Someone had long since picked it up.

That he had returned the contracts had caused Saburo to adjust his opinion of the assassin. That had been an unselfish act. Men who are hired to kill someone don’t go to the trouble this man had gone to. The assassin could have sold his haul. What made him so considerate of whores?

Perhaps the contracts had been his primary objective. In that case, he had been hired either by the women themselves or by a man close to one of them.

Someone like Genba.

Saburo dismissed the thought. Genba and Ohiro did not have enough money to hire an assassin. The women who worked for Tokuzo could have pooled their savings, though. He was not happy with this idea either. Whores had rarely the foresight to save.

Who then? And why?

The attack on himself he explained by the fact that the assassin had seen him enter the brothel by the side door, and had then lain in wait and knocked him out. When he had searched him, he had found the contracts and his needle.

It was embarrassing.

Never mind. He would find the slippery bastard and have it out with him. With interest for the head-bashing.

By the time Saburo reached the abandoned temple, it was quiet and dark. The sky was overcast, and a smell of rain was in the air. Saburo slipped along the ruined galleries like a ghost. In the open areas of the big temple courtyard, two fires burned and dark shadows sat around them or moved about. A faint glimmer of oil lamps came from some of the huts and lean-tos. The beggars had come home from their labors.

The man he wanted was the giant. That was why he circled around to the ruined wing of the hall where he had regained consciousness. He thought everyone probably had their assigned space, and the giant would be in the same place as last time.

He was, or near enough. He and three old men were shooting dice for coppers by the light of two lanterns with oil lights. Saburo thought he recognized two of the players as the old men he had nearly vomited on, but he could not be sure in the murk.

“Greetings, Jinsai” he said, joining them. “I thought I’d come to thank you.”

They jumped a little, then relaxed. The giant frowned. “So it’s you again. Someone’s been looking for you.”

Saburo’s heart missed a beat. Surely not the assassin. But who else would look for him here? “Really? Who? What did he want?”

“You. And when he didn’t get any help from me, he asked for Bashan or Kenko. What did you tell him?”

“What did he look like?”

“Good looking. Nice clean clothes. Lots of teeth.”

Tora.

Saburo’s heart warmed a little until it occurred to him that Tora’s errand might not have been friendly in nature. The beggars stared at him with undisguised displeasure. He said, “He’s a friend who took me in. I had to tell him what happened. He doesn’t mean you any harm. He likes beggars.”

Jinsai growled, “You’d better be careful what you say. There are people here who get very nervous about being found.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know he’d come. It won’t happen again.”

There was a brief silence, then one of the old men asked, “Join us in a game?”

Saburo couldn’t refuse. “Just for a little while.”

They watched him counting out twenty coppers. “I’m a poor man,” he said in explanation of the meager offering.

One of the old men guffawed. “You’re thief. You’ll just steal more when that runs out.”

“How would you know what I do for a living?” Saburo demanded, affronted.

They all grinned knowingly.

“Bashan knows about these things,” Jinsai announced. “He told us.”

Saburo thought of protesting some more but saw it wouldn’t help his case. They believed whatever Bashan told them. Bashan’s service to their community had given him at least as much standing here as the priest Kenko. So he laughed it off as a joke and concentrated on the game. He was rewarded with a couple of wins and relaxed a little.

“So, Jinsai,” he asked, as the dice passed to another player, “I recall you told me someone was walking away from me just before you found me. I’ve been thinking about that. I think he must be the one that attacked me. He stole something from me, and I’d like to get it back. So I’m hoping you’ll help me find him. It was a man, was it?”

Jinsai stared at him. Then he shook his head. “I saw nothing.”

“You said you saw a man.”

“I saw nothing.”

One of the old men snapped, “Play or go elsewhere if you just want to chat.”

The friendly atmosphere had changed. He was no longer welcome. Saburo stayed a little longer, losing all of his stake, and then returned to Mrs. Komiya’s.

The Grand Lady

Akitada had planned to speak to Kobe again, taking with him the list of suspects Tokuzo’s mother had given him. Surely Kobe must agree to release Genba and his girlfriend while the police investigated the murder further.

But then Kosehira arrived in a carriage to take him to his cousin, the prince’s wife.

Akitada was torn. Tora had accused him of helping his friend Kosehira before his own retainers. There was the implied charge that he, Akitada, would always prefer his own kind over a common man, even if he was part of his family. And a nobleman’s retainers considered themselves part of his family, bound to him by their service and loyalty. To forget this was, in Tora’s eyes, shameful.

He admitted to himself that Tora was right. He had responsibilities to those who served him. Both Tora and Genba had risked their lives fighting for him, and Tora had saved Akitada’s life several times in the past. But Akitada also had obligations to Kosehira. Besides, Genba had got himself involved in the unsavory murder of a brothel owner through his own questionable pursuits.

In the end, Akitada donned his best silk robe and court hat and climbed into Kosehira’s carriage. He felt guilty, but he looked forward with much greater interest to meeting Lady Kishi than to another unpleasant encounter with Superintendent Kobe.

The imperial guard was still posted at the prince’s gates but they recognized Kosehira’s carriage and let it pass into the entrance courtyard. When Kosehira explained his visit was to his cousin, they had no objections. A servant was dispatched and returned after a short while with the prince’s majordomo, an older man with a stiff manner, wearing a very formal dark silk robe and hat.

With a bow, he announced in a high voice, “Her highness is pleased to receive you, my lord.”

The carriage was backed up to the gallery of the main house. Kosehira and Akitada stepped out of its back and followed the majordomo through several halls and along some galleries to the north pavilion, the traditional living quarters of the owner’s senior wife. There he threw open the carved double doors, revealing a large and well-lit room where a number of women bustled about, setting up screens and removing small children. It was a domestic scene, but one so elegant it might as well have played out in the emperor’s palace.

The room’s appointments were extremely rich. The screens had been painted lavishly with flowers and grasses, birds and small animals; the grass mats of double thickness had a purple silk trim; wide bands of silk brocade trimmed the green reed curtains; and all the furnishings and utensils had been chosen for their beauty and rarity.

Prince Atsuhira’s ranking wife sat behind hastily assembled screens, surrounded by her gowns in fold upon fold of lustrous silk in shades ranging from deepest forest green to a pale rose. She hid her face behind a costly fan, but Akitada saw the almond-shaped eyes rested on him longer than on her cousin.

Kosehira was not impressed by pomp and circumstance. “Hello, Kishi,” he greeted the grand lady unceremoniously. “I’ve brought Akitada. Thought you’d be curious to meet him after all the years of my bragging about him.” He kicked two cushions into place and said, “Sit down, Akitada, before her eyes bore a hole through you.”

“Always the same, Kosehira,” said Lady Kishi in a soft voice. “Rude and unmannerly. Lord Sugawara, you must ignore my cousin. He has had no upbringing at all. Please be seated. Will you take refreshments?”

Akitada bowed, sat, and murmured a polite refusal.

Kosehira rubbed his hands. “Never mind him. Of course we want some of that good wine your husband got from Kyushu. And maybe a few of those little fried things your cook makes so well.”

The lady gestured to two of her attendants who ran to carry out her command. “What brings you?” she asked. “You visit me so seldom I must assume it has something to do with the trouble you and my husband are in.”

When she had turned her head to her attendants, Akitada could see her profile for a moment. All of the chancellor’s daughters were considered exquisite beauties, but he saw nothing beyond a conventional appearance. Heavily made up with white paste, coal-black mascara, and painted brows, she seemed merely round-faced, though her hair was very thick and glossy.

Kosehira chuckled. “Good for you, Kishi. Get right to the point. Yes, I thought we’d better get your husband out of the muddle he’s in. You seemed the obvious ally.”

She raised her fan and laughed, a gentle, tinkling sound like clear water splashing over small rocks. “You know I can do nothing. I’m a mere woman. It is men who do things in this world. Women merely wait and bear the consequences.”

Akitada suppressed a snort. The lady had a reputation for meddling in affairs of state. Her entire marriage had been marked by repeated efforts of putting her husband on the throne.

Kosehira would have none of it either. “You’d better rethink your position, Cousin. As your husband goes, so go you and your children. Given the fact that Atsuhira is a favorite among the people, the present charges will go away if you speak to your father and uncles. They cannot want to damage the family’s reputation further by persecuting the one potential heir who has popular support.”

A clever argument. Akitada looked at Kosehira with new eyes. Even if Kishi’s ambitions to become empress had been foiled, there were still her children. Prince Atsuhira had fathered two sons and a daughter with his first lady. The sons would expect court ranks, and the daughter was in line to become an empress someday.

“My husband gives little thought to his children,” she pointed out with a glance at Akitada. “He spends his time mourning someone who has no claim on him instead of defending himself against these ridiculous charges.”

“Precisely. With your help Akitada and I hope to wake him to his responsibilities.”

Lady Kishi was silent for a long while. Then she asked, “What do you think I can do?”

Akitada decided to speak. “Your ladyship has access to the imperial apartments. Can you arrange a meeting between me and someone who was close to the Lady Masako before she left the palace?”

Lady Kishi glanced at him. Her fan moved more rapidly. “Why should I do such an extraordinary thing?”

“I believe the Lady Masako may have been murdered by the prince’s enemies. If so, her friends may have useful information.” Akitada had no proof of this, but it was a possibility, and the only one he could think of that might weigh with Lady Kishi.”

She hissed her surprise. “Murder? How do you hope to prove such a thing? The police say she took her own life.”

“The police consider the death suspicious.” Akitada hoped she knew of his past collaboration with Kobe and would believe him.

There was another silence, then she said, “What you ask is impossible. No lady in the imperial service would agree to meet a man secretly, let alone discuss palace matters.”

Kosehira laughed out loud. “Oh, come, Kishi. You know that’s ridiculous. For one thing, Lady Masako herself managed quite well to meet with your husband.”

She bristled. “What can you expect from such a person?”

“Must it be secret?” asked Akitada. “Is there not a way in which a lady might speak to me without damaging her reputation? What about Lady Masako’s attendants? I assure you, I’ve never caused any scandals of the sort you fear.”

Kosehira added, “Akitada is the most boring fellow I know. He dotes on his wife.”

Lady Kishi eyed Akitada over her fan. “You have only one wife?” she asked.

Not sure if she would hold the fact against him, Akitada admitted it.

“But you have mistresses.”

“No mistresses.”

Kosehira cast up his eyes and shook his head.

“You see?” said Lady Kishi, turning to her cousin. “Not all men are like my husband.” She paused. “That is, if your friend tells the truth.”

“Oh, it’s the truth, Cousin.” Kosehira grinned. “He leads a very dull life. He works all day and plays with his children at night.”

Somehow this little exchange, though embarrassing to Akitada, broke the impasse. Lady Kishi turned back to him and said, “Very well. I’ll see what I can find out. But it will not be easy.”

Kosehira clapped his hands. “I knew you had a clear head, Kishi. And, by the heavens, we’re glad to have you for an ally.” He rose.

Akitada also got to his feet.

Lady Kishi looked up at them. “Please understand I do this for my children and no one else.”

Kosehira positively bounced with delight. He seemed to think all their troubles would now disappear in no time at all. Akitada was not so optimistic. Lady Kishi could be very helpful, but he still had no clue how or why Lady Masako had died. And until her murder was solved, he doubted Prince Atsuhira could be cleared of the charge of treason.

They parted on Nijo Avenue, Kosehira to return home, and Akitada to his office in the Ministry of Justice. He had been missing too much time from his work, and even a tolerant superior like Fujiwara Kaneie might lose patience.

He spent the next hours working feverishly through paperwork that had stacked up, dictating letters and comments to his clerk, sending junior clerks on searches for documents and precedents, and reporting to Kaneie about the disposition of a tax case..

But in the back of his mind hovered a dark cloud. Genba was in jail and wanted to leave his service. Saburo was homeless and would soon go hungry. His family was shrinking, and those closest to him had lost faith in him. What troubled Akitada most was that both Genba and Saburo had put their trust in him, and he had disappointed them.

When it was getting dark enough to light the oil lamps, Akitada’s patience and his back rebelled. He got up and stretched. Then he gave his clerk instructions for the next day and left for the jail, hoping to reassure Genba of his support.

He was not allowed to see him. The supervisor looked apologetic but said he had orders not to allow visitors in the future.

This sent Akitada to Kobe’s office. The superintendent was in, but Akitada spent some time waiting in the corridor. The experience humiliated him and proved their changed relationship. Kobe no longer treated him as a trusted friend but rather as a suspicious character whose rank did not require any courtesies. But Genba’s fate was more important than his pride, and Akitada said nothing about the delay when he finally found himself face to face with Kobe. Kobe had also been working late and looked irritable.

Not a good beginning.

Akitada said somewhat stiffly, “Forgive the interruption, but I have some new information about the murder of the brothel keeper Tokuzo.”

Kobe stared back, unsmiling. “Yes?”

“I have spoken with his mother. She admits now there was no theft of gold. Only the contracts were taken. She also supplied a list of names of several women who worked for her son and had been mistreated. These women and their male friends or husbands had good reason to want Tokuzo dead.” He pulled out the list and handed it to Kobe. “I think the police should investigate these people. The killer might be among them.”

Kobe frowned at the scratches Tokuzo’s mother had produced. “In that business, you always find people with grudges,” he said, dropping the paper on his desk.

Akitada bristled. “You mean you’ll do nothing to solve the case?”

“Not at all. We have two suspects, and we aren’t finished interrogating them.”

Akitada gasped audibly at this. “You are torturing Genba to get a confession?”

Kobe glared. “I don’t like your choice of words, Lord Sugawara. We do not use torture.”

“You used to. Why should I think you won’t do so again?” Akitada clenched his fists and took a step forward. “This is not some thief or robber you’ve arrested. This is Genba. You know Genba isn’t violent, and Genba doesn’t lie. He will not confess to a crime he didn’t commit. If you keep beating him to get a confession, you will be torturing an innocent man.”

Kobe turned away. “We have nothing more to discuss, and I’m very busy.”

“I want to see Genba. They turned me away at the jail. Your orders?”

“For the time being. Good night, sir.”