Текст книги "The Fires of the Gods"

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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THE CENSORS

The Danjōdai, or Board of Censors, occupied buildings directly across the street from the Ministry of Justice. During the performance of his duties as ministerial clerk and secretary, Akitada had had occasion to deal with these feared investigators of all sorts of offenses committed by officials. Some of those occasions had been most unpleasant, but none more so than this one.

These days, the forty-odd censors had little to occupy them beyond inspections of the books of outgoing governors. Most of their judicial tasks had been taken over by the Ministry of Justice or the Capital Police. But the bureau persisted and guarded its ancient privileges jealously, reporting on officials from the sixth rank up and examining misdeeds of those below that rank. The censors enjoyed the status of the office, along with the income, without being overly burdened with work or responsibility.

But this made them doubly dangerous to Akitada, a former member of the Ministry of Justice. He would have to argue his case against their prejudice, and not only his livelihood, but also his honor was at stake.

He wore his second-best official robe and court hat and carried his notes in his sleeve. These he had reviewed during the sleepless hours of the night until he knew the points by heart, but such was his insecurity that he did not dare leave the details up to his memory. The mind plays tricks at the worst moments, and he could not afford to be struck dumb during the interrogation.

The sky was overcast. There had been talk that the long-awaited rainy season would finally start. The summer heat with its ineffectual thunderstorms had been enervating in the capital and disastrous for the rice farmers. Akitada eyed the clouds with misgiving. With his luck, he would arrive wet and bedraggled, his fine robe and trousers splashed with mud. He walked faster and managed to arrive dry, if out of breath and perspiring.

Lack of sleep and a general sense of impending defeat put him at a disadvantage, and things did not start well. A servant showed him into a small, airless room used as a waiting area, leaving the door to the hallway wide open. People passed back and forth, glancing curiously at Akitada, who began to feel like a condemned man on public display before his execution.

Eventually, the five official censors who would hear his case arrived also. They, too, looked in at him, some of them coldly, others frowning. Akitada bowed, recognizing a few faces: three were Fujiwaras and cousins of the emperor and the chancellor, the other two were unfamiliar. Not one of them looked as if he would deal fairly with a Sugawara.

He continued to wait. The perspiration on his skin dried into assorted itches, and the tie of his hat dug uncomfortably into the skin under his jaw. It seemed to take a long time for them to arrange themselves. Perhaps they were already discussing his punishment among themselves. Even exile became a distinct possibility. He thought of Sado Island and shivered in the warm, close air of the anteroom in spite of his heavy formal robe and full trousers.

At long last, the servant reappeared to call him into the hearing room. There had been a time in Akitada’s life when he would have knelt immediately inside the door and touched his forehead to the floorboards. But he had risen in the world since then and was no longer a callow and timid youth. He swallowed his fears and walked in, head held high, telling himself that his past accomplishments had surely made him a better man than the five stiff, black-robed officials lined up on the dais.

Apart from the censors and himself, the room also contained a scribe, who sat to the side behind a low desk to take down the proceedings, and a secretary, who hovered behind the censor in the middle.

When he reached the cushion placed for him, Akitada bowed and said, ‘I am Sugawara Akitada and hope to be allowed to explain the matter that caused the present inquiry.’

Waiting for a response, he looked from face to face. The chief investigator was one of the Fujiwaras and surprisingly young. He was flanked by the two other Fujiwaras, men in their forties or fifties with dull round faces and heavy bodies. The two men on the ends were the strangers to him: one elderly, with a neatly trimmed white beard, the other thin and long-jawed. They barely stirred or changed expression when his eyes met theirs. Were they waiting for more, for signs of abject humility, for pleading? He stiffened his resolve. They would not see him grovel or beg for leniency.

Finally, the young man in the center said petulantly, ‘You may be seated.’

Akitada sat, removed his notes from his sleeve and placed them carefully before him. Then he looked up expectantly. He thought he saw some signs of unease; they looked at each other, fidgeted, frowned. Akitada said, ‘I am at your service, gentlemen.’

More fidgeting. It occurred to Akitada that they found themselves saddled with a problem they did not know how to address. His self-confidence rose marginally.

The Fujiwara in the center was senior in rank even though he was the youngest. The colored strips on his court hat marked the upper fourth rank. He was in his twenties and still slender, unlike most of the chancellor’s family. Akitada thought he looked the sort of young man who would have done well as an officer in the guard. Perhaps he wished himself there. Now, he clearly struggled to live up to his duties and resorted to bluster.

‘You stand accused of very serious crimes,’ he announced with a frown. ‘I would have expected more humility under the circumstances.’

‘I am guilty of no crime and have no reason to be ashamed of the way I have performed my duties,’ Akitada returned, staring back.

This angered the young man. He leaned forward, pointing his baton at Akitada. ‘What? Do you deny your transgressions while assigned to the Ministry of Justice? Do you deny that you have disobeyed your superiors? And that you have set yourself against the proper authorities by interfering in an official murder investigation? These are serious offenses, and there is strong suspicion that you may be guilty of the crime.’

Akitada regretted angering the man for the sake of self-respect. Puppies such as he could be dangerous even when they were ineffectual.

He bowed deeply and said, ‘I deny the charges, My Lord. I am here today to serve his Majesty as I have done all of my life.’

His reply left the other at a loss how to proceed. He glowered, opened and closed his mouth, but found no words. Akitada scanned the faces to his right and left. Not one offered to speak. All looked irritated. A bad start.

The bearded older man bit his lip, then glanced towards his superior and said, ‘Perhaps the scribe may read out the charges so that Lord Sugawara can respond to them. If necessary, the members of the Board can then question him as to details.’

There was a murmur of agreement.

The ranking Fujiwara flushed. ‘Thank you, Akimoto. I was about to say so.’

It occurred to Akitada that the older man must be the career soldier Minamoto Akimoto. He had the look and was known for a fine military career in his youth. Akimoto did not look happy to be here, and that, too, might work against Akitada.

The scribe bustled up to help the chief censor find the correct document, and the reading of the charges commenced.

The account cited his angry outburst against his superior and the subsequent ill-fated visit to the Kiyowara mansion the day the counselor was murdered. Unnamed witnesses reported on Akitada’s reaction to his demotion and his determination to find the man responsible.

Clearly, his former colleagues at the ministry had been eager to provide this information.

The document next outlined a long list of past offenses. For this, they had gone all the way back to the beginning of his career. Almost all of the examples fell in the category of disobedience or neglect of duty. They went on and on from his disobedience in attending criminal trials when he was still a mere apprentice clerk, to his other appearance before the Board of Censors upon his return from Kazusa when he had been charged with exceeding his powers in the investigation of missing tax payments.

Akitada clenched his hands inside the full sleeves and gritted his teeth in silence.

They had built a case against an arrogant official who had consistently overreached himself, disobeying instructions and behaving in the manner of someone so power-hungry that he would stop at nothing. The complaints of his previous superior, Minister Soga, featured prominently.

The reading eventually concluded. Akitada wished he could simply blank out the reminders of past struggles and disappointments. When the final word faded, he took a deep breath.

‘If I may be permitted—’ he started, but the ranking censor raised a warning hand.

‘There is additional information,’ he said, making a face. ‘And it is of a most serious nature. It appears that you are about to be arrested for the murder of the late counselor.’ He described how Akitada had found out that it had been Kiyowara Kane who had raised questions about Akitada’s suitability to serve and had recommended demotion, how Akitada had then called on Kiyowara, clearly in anger, and how he had been seen rushing away only moments before the counselor was found dead in his office. ‘Apparently, Sugawara then tried to cover up his crime by pretending to investigate the case.

It was a frightening catalogue of crimes and misdemeanors. When the chief censor stopped, the others looked at Akitada with fixed expressions that proclaimed his fate.

Akitada pulled his wits together and tried to stifle his anger. ‘I am not guilty,’ he said, glad that his voice was reasonably steady. ‘My being there the day Kiyowara died was a mere coincidence. Any number of others were also there, and at least one of them had a much stronger motive to kill the counselor than I did. I merely wanted to ask him why I lost my position. I suspected that Lord Kiyowara must have based his judgment on the same old trumped up charges I have just been listening to. I could hardly have blamed him. He was a relative newcomer to the capital. But I thought there would be some gentlemen among you who knew better – or that you would at least have checked the facts. In fairness, I should be allowed to present the true record of my service to the emperor.’

The young Fujiwara sneered. ‘Shouldn’t you have done this in a more timely manner? The Board took care to notify you. I am very much afraid that this is just another example of your defiance of authority, and I for one refuse to waste any more time on this case.’

Akitada’s heart sank. He would not be allowed to defend himself. His experience with similar cases in the past told him that there was rarely recourse once a verdict was given. Those who ruled the nation had no wish to alienate colleagues or to undermine the powers of another office. It was as ridiculous as it was frightening. Would they now also find him guilty of murder?

He bowed. ‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘I did prepare these documents in my defense, but expected that I would present the facts in person.’

‘Then you were wrong and should have informed yourself better,’ snapped the young nobleman.

Akitada looked at them dumbly. There was nothing else for him to say. What were they waiting for?

The silence stretched.

It was again Akimoto who cleared his throat apologetically. He made a small bow towards his younger colleague and said, ‘The senior censor is, of course, quite right, but perhaps in this instance we might make an exception. I’m somewhat familiar with Lord Sugawara’s history and think we would all benefit from having a look at his version of the facts before we make our decision. A mistake made in haste would be embarrassing.’

The senior censor started to bluster, but there were murmurs of consent from some of the others. His face stiffened, and he said coldly, ‘Since Lord Akimoto expresses concern, far be it from me to urge a speedy resolution. By all means, let us take our time. The chancellor will appreciate our thoroughness… if not our dilatory handling of the case.’ He waved his baton, and the secretary approached to collect Akitada’s notes. Akitada was told to return the following day.

He had no illusions that the intercession by Akimoto meant the case against him would be dismissed. If anything, it had rankled the senior secretary and would make him even more determined to find Akitada guilty – if only to make a point. What Akitada had gained was half a day’s freedom, perhaps his last. The fee paid by Lady Kiyowara would have to be returned. He doubted that there was enough gold left in his money box. He must earn the Abbot’s fee somehow.

The skies still hid behind clouds. It was warm, but there was the smell of rain in the air. He walked home to change his clothes. Seimei met him with an expression that was anxious and hopeful at the same time.

‘Is it over, sir?’

‘No. I’m to report again tomorrow. It doesn’t look very good. For the moment, though, I need to get into old clothes. How’s Tora?’

‘The same.’ Seimei’s expression was bleak. ‘I don’t like this fever. We have tried everything. Where are you going?’

‘To find out what it was that Tora stirred up and perhaps to earn my fee from the abbot. We’ll have to return the Kiyowara gold.’

Seimei gasped and put a hand to his mouth.

‘Don’t worry.’ Akitada felt guilty for having been so blunt. ‘We’ll weather this, as we have worse things. Just make sure that Tora gets what he needs.’

Seimei nodded. He tried a smile. ‘At least Her Ladyship and the little one are thriving.’

Akitada patted Seimei’s frail shoulder. ‘There, you see? We mustn’t despair. Now, can you help me find some rags suitable for associating with crooks?’

Seimei balked. ‘You aren’t thinking of looking for those young monsters who attacked Tora? They tortured some poor creature for days! You must not risk your life at this time. We shall cope.’

Akitada smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I shall be very careful.’

‘Please, sir.’ The old man’s voice rose a little. ‘Think of your wife and child if you won’t think of yourself.’

They had a right to worry and that made it doubly hard, but Akitada had no choice. Guilt made him peremptory. ‘Enough! This is no different from any other work I have ever done and certainly less dangerous than exile on Sado Island.’

That reminder made Seimei suck in his breath and turn away to look for old clothes for him. They were not precisely rags, but a dingy pair of trousers and a long jacket: comfortable, and indistinguishable from clothes worn by any poor man who had some business to attend to.

Since a sword would attract attention, Akitada pushed a knife in his sash under the jacket. If Akitada had not spoken harshly a moment ago, Seimei would no doubt have said that his master was jumping into a deep pool with a heavy stone in his arms.

THE RAIN

The distance to the Western Market seemed longer than Akitada remembered, but then he rarely had occasion to do much walking these days. At least the cloudy skies made the summer heat more bearable.

It was market day, an occasion that alternated once a week between the two markets on either side of the capital. After a lean and troubled year, Akitada had looked in amazement at the bustle of the eastern market. There, stands were selling sedge and bamboo blinds, paper fans, cotton or ramie cloth, religious objects and household vessels. Food sellers offered dumplings, cakes, noodles, soups, and stews. And entertainers were everywhere: a puppet master carried his stage on a tray tied around his neck; three musicians fluted and strummed and drummed; a young woman danced and sang; a storyteller entertained young and old; a fortune-teller sold his amulets; and acrobats performed their tricks among the shoppers. Here, the picture looked much bleaker. The goods were poor stuff, and most of the stands sold vegetables.

He found Hoshina’s wine shop easily, but there his luck ended. Tora’s description had suggested a flirtatious female, but he found a big, full-breasted woman, bustling back and forth among poorly-dressed customers.

She was in her thirties with a slightly pock-marked face and protruding front teeth. Her customers, though, seemed fond of her. They tried to pinch her bottom or lift her skirt as she passed and laughed uproariously when she slapped their hands away.

Eventually, Hoshina noticed him and stopped for his order.

‘Wine.’ He was hungry, but dared not try the food.

She appraised him for a moment, then said, ‘You want the good stuff.’

He nodded. ‘And I’d like to talk to you when you have a moment.’

She was surprised. ‘That could be a while,’ she said, eyeing him more closely.

‘I’m in a hurry. It concerns Tora.’

Her face closed. She took a step away and scanned the crowded room. ‘I’m busy. It’s market day.’ Her voice was tight and she left.

Akitada saw only ordinary working men snatching a quick bite or drink before returning to work. None of them were boys, but Tora’s mention of the three deaf mutes probably meant that any of these older males could be members of a gang. Tora had pointed out that the deaf mutes and the girl had protected the boys from the police. Hoshina was probably afraid to talk to him.

He wondered what to do next when Hoshina was back with a flask and a cup. She held out her hand. ‘Twenty coppers.’

It was dear, but Akitada gave her the money, saying in a low voice, ‘Tora is very ill. That’s why I came. It’s urgent.’

Her eyes widened briefly, then flew around the room again. She leaned down to pour the wine and murmured, ‘Later. After the market closes.’

That would not be until well after dark. Akitada asked in a low voice, ‘How is Jirokichi? Can’t you at least tell me where he is?’

She straightened, saying, ‘How should I know? The bastard’s left me. All men are bastards.’ She flounced away, swinging her hips to a chorus of raucous shouts.

Had that been the truth? He looked after her and knew that he could trust no one in this matter. Something was afoot that was far more important than the disappearance of Shokan’s protégée, and Jirokichi was at the center of it.

He tasted the wine. It had the strong flavor and murky consistency much loved by the common people. Leaving the rest, he walked out.

The clouds still hung low over the city. His mood had changed, and it seemed now that they cast a dull, depressing light on the city. He wished for rain because that would close the market early. He had not eaten all day, having been too tense about the hearing this morning. He looked at the foods offered by the few market vendors and settled for a bowl of noodles that he bought from a middle-aged woman who looked clean and was doing a good business.

He had chosen well. The noodles were plump, and the broth was nicely seasoned. Suddenly ravenous, he finished quickly and bought a second bowl. This earned him the woman’s gratitude.

‘Good, eh?’ she asked with a gap-toothed grin.

‘Very good,’ said Akitada, slurping noisily.

‘Hah.’ She laughed. ‘My old man, he says he only keeps me for my noodles. Better than fresh sea bream, he says. You’re not from around here, are you, sir?’

So much for trying to pass as a poor man. ‘I don’t come here very often,’ Akitada said vaguely, then changed the subject by nodding at the lowering sky. ‘You must be worried that the rain will close the market early.’

She glanced up and shook her head. ‘Not likely. It’ll hold off till dark.’ Her bright eyes looked Akitada over more closely. ‘So what are you doing in this part of town, if you’ll forgive a nosy woman’s question?’

She was a chatterbox, but there was a twinkle in her eyes and her friendliness was generous. Akitada chuckled and decided to ask a question or two himself. ‘You have sharp eyes. I was hoping that I wouldn’t be taken for an official. I’m looking for a young monk. His name is Kansei. He seems to have run away and his abbot is nearly frantic with worry.’

She cocked her head. ‘Now why would he run away? Plenty to eat in a monastery. Besides, where’s his faith in the Buddha?’

‘Not all boys go willingly into a monastery. Sometimes the father or mother hope to gain blessings. Or perhaps they cannot afford to feed a child.’

She nodded, looking thoughtful. ‘Is he a child then? They do run sometimes.’ She turned away to stir her pot of noodles and serve a customer. ‘Poor boy,’ she said when she turned back.

‘Why do you call him poor? As you said, the acolytes lead better lives than the children of the streets.’

She frowned. ‘Maybe. How old is this boy then?’

‘Well, he’s not precisely a child. I believe he’s about seventeen. The abbot thinks he got bored and joined a street gang.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Oh, that’s bad. They’re young devils, if you ask me. And you should see how much money they have to throw around. Gold, even. Now, where would boys that age get gold? And they have no respect for working people. We all keep an eye out for them. They come here and take whatever they want and don’t pay. And if you make a fuss, they dump your food and dishes in the dirt and kick them around. Devils! I’ve seen them knock down a poor old man and laugh. One day they beat up a constable right over there.’ She pointed towards some leaning stands, their covers of woven reed mats supported by thin bamboo poles. ‘They pulled up those poles and were jumping around pretending to be stick-fighters. The man whose stand it was called the market constable, but they beat up the constable and he ran away.’

Akitada shook his head. ‘I see what you mean. Were they arrested?’

She uttered a bitter laugh. ‘Arrested? The police won’t touch them. The constable who got beaten up, he quit and left town. The one we have now disappears whenever they show up.’

‘But vendors still do a good trade. The gang can’t be too bad.’

‘As I said, we keep an eye open. Take my word, they’re as bad as can be.’

Yes, perhaps they were. The stick-fighting incident might have been a prank that got out of hand, and the rest was mere hooliganism, but the fact that they had gold to spend suggested that they earned it by committing far more serious crimes. Akitada said, ‘I take it you haven’t heard about any young monks joining them?’

‘Oh, no. How could such a one forget the Buddha’s teachings and do such things?’ She eyed Akitada’s empty bowl. ‘You know, that reminds me: one of my best customers is a woman whose son is a monk. She comes regular and always eats three bowls of my noodles.’

He quickly handed his bowl over for a refill.

‘You looked like you needed some food,’ she said with a satisfied nod as he raised the bowl to his mouth. ‘Like I said, this woman, she loves my noodles. Only the rich can afford to put on fat like that. She says she’s come down in the world, but that her son will be a great man some day and she’ll live in a mansion with many servants again. She put her boy in a monastery to have him taught because she can’t afford a university.’

It was a stretchout Akitada asked anyway, ‘What’s her name?’

‘She’s just a customer, but I’ll ask her next time. You’d know her anywhere. She’s so fat she’s got to lean on a child to walk.’

That image made Akitada feel uncomfortably full. What had he been thinking of to let this clever noodle woman con him into buying three bowls? He quickly handed back the empty bowl, paid, and walked away.

Noting glumly that the clouds just seemed to hang there, he decided to spend the time until the market closed by checking out some of Tora’s other recent haunts.

He found the warehouses easily, and like Tora he smelled the characteristic sour odor of fermented rice. The gang’s warehouse looked deserted, its gate leaning drunkenly and only confused tracks marking the dry dirt in front. Looking up and down the narrow lane first to make sure he was alone, Akitada slipped into the yard.

His steps sounded overly loud as he walked up to the splintered door. He reminded himself that the worthless rascals were responsible for Tora’s festering wound and reached down to pull the knife from his boot before opening it. There was a sudden clatter in the darkness, and he jumped back. When nothing else happened, he walked in cautiously, letting his eyes adjust to the murk. Something darker than the gloom materialized near his feet with a yowl and streaked off to the outside. Before he could catch his breath, a second shadow flew past and also disappeared outside.

Cats.

Ashamed, he took a deep breath to calm the frantic beating of his heart and looked around. The light was minimal, but the warehouse did not seem to contain any other creatures. He put the knife back in his boot and circled the open space. An unpleasant smell joined the yeasty one of malt. The odors of rotting flesh and excrement.

He walked gingerly, looking at the scuffed and bloodstained dirt floor, until he reached the larger stains beneath the iron hook that must have held the captive Jirokichi. A few flies still remained and buzzed up lazily. No one seemed to have attempted hiding the evidence by cleaning up the place.

It sickened him that what had happened here would go unpunished. Neither he nor Tora could go to Kobe to report.

Akitada made a half-hearted inspection of the few remnants of the sake trade. Evidence of formerly stored rice was everywhere. When he picked up one empty, broken bag and shook it, a few dark purple grains fell out: malt rice, used to start fermentation. They joined other dark droppings on the dry, sandy floor. Mice or rats had been at work, and that explained the cats he had disturbed. A number of rice wine casks and large vats were empty, and so were various boxes. The handcarts that had once served in delivering goods to brewers were mostly in need of repair. The warehouse had not been used for its intended purpose for a while, yet it might be interesting to find out who owned it.

Its more recent occupants had left their own marks. The remnants of past meals still coated some earthenware bowls, and sake cups lay scattered on the ground. Someone had left a colorful jacket behind, and a pair of dice rested in one of the sake cups. Near the door was another small pile of items: a closed charcoal brazier with a handle, the type maids used to carry live charcoal from one building to another; two stoppered earthenware pitchers; and a cloth bag.

Akitada picked up one of the pitchers. It was full. So was the other. He thought at first they must contain rice wine, but when he pulled out the wad that stopped the narrow mouth, the liquid inside was dark and viscous and smelled like cheap oil. Lamp oil was a useful item if the gang had spent much time here after dark, but two large pitchers of oil were certainly a lot to keep one small lamp lit. He checked the cloth bag. It contained stuffing of the type used in quilted covers and winter clothing, plus a small container of flints. The charcoal brazier was empty except for some ashes.

There was no longer any doubt. He was standing in the head-quarters of the gang that had been setting the fires. A small group of street kids had terrified the capital into believing that the gods were punishing the country. Could they have hoped to topple the chancellor’s government? It was not likely. But when Tora and Jirokichi had come too close, they had caught Jirokichi and tried to kill Tora. They would have succeeded if another gang had not interfered.

That was interesting, but not reassuring. The young ‘monk’ Akitada hoped to restore to Abbot Shokan was most likely involved up to his handsome ears. If caught, he would be arrested and sent into exile and probable death.

And Shokan would be grievously embarrassed by this discovery and furious with Akitada.

He paused to listen. He was not safe here.

Something in the air of the warehouse changed subtly. It seemed dimmer, and there was a moldy smell. Akitada sniffed and looked around without being able to account for it. Then he heard a faint rushing sound, not unlike the distant roar of the sea. A soft plinking noise came from right above his head. He looked up into the darkness of rough beams. The plinking repeated, then multiplied, became a steady drumming… and he realized he heard the rain on the roof.

Finally, it had come, rushing and gurgling, to soak the land.

Akitada ran outside to watch it falling in silvery sheets, pock-marking the dry earth, covering the roofs and walls of buildings with glossy darkness. The trees turned a deeper green and danced gently in the shower.

His spirits lifted. The rain seemed to him to wash away the evil he had found inside. Surely that meant the gods had not forsaken them. There would be a good rice harvest after all. And the fires would cease.

He let the warm drops run down his face and lifted his hands to the cloudburst. The world became misty. The warm earth and the many roofs of the city that had been baking in the sun gave up their heat in steam. Finally, the summer rains had come.

Laughing softly to himself, he walked away from the warehouse. Even for him, hope was still possible.

He arrived at the Fragrant Peach drenched, but full of new energy and determination.

He knew from Tora’s report that this dirty dive was a hangout for criminals. These days, criminals organized much like tradesmen and merchants did. They formed brotherhoods that protected their members. Akitada thought that Tora had tangled with two different gangs: the one to which the three deaf mutes belonged, and the other, made up of young men in their early twenties or younger. The precise connection between the two gangs was not clear. The deaf mutes had attacked the arsonists to rescue Jirokichi, but they had then allowed the youths to escape. He would have to be careful.

He was not the only one who had ducked in from the shower that continued outside. The atmosphere was dim, smoky, and smelled of wet dog. Several damp locals sat chatting around a fire that put out more smoke than light, and the young waitress was serving them wine and bowls of pickles.