The Convict's Sword (28 page)

“How come?”

Tora said nothing for a moment, then, “They starved.”

“Starved? Farmers? You’d think a farmer wouldn’t starve.”

“They do when they have a few bad harvests and the tax collector takes all their rice for taxes. You can get through the winter gnawing a few roots and leaves left in the fields, but if your seed rice is gone, there’ll be no harvest the next year. But the tax man comes anyway, and if you can’t pay, he takes what you have and makes everyone work off the debt on one of the lord’s pet projects. In my case, I got to be a soldier. When I got back from fighting, they were all dead.”

“Oh.” Kinjiro thought about it, then said, “I’ve never been out of the capital. My father was a scribe. We lived in a nice house a few wards north of here.”

“A scribe? That’s a pretty good job, isn’t it? Practically a learned man. How come you end up here?”

“He died.”

“But . . . ?” Tora swallowed the rest of his question. The boy had turned his head and was plucking nervously at his shirt.

“I don’t care,” he said fiercely. “I can look after myself. I don’t need anybody. Someday I’ll show them all.”

“Is your mother dead, too?”

The boy kicked a heel viciously into the dirt. “No such luck! The bitch had better things to do. She got married again.”

Tora was appalled. After a moment, he said, “I guess her new husband didn’t want to adopt a whole family. What about brothers and sisters?”

“She kept my baby sister. And it wasn’t her new husband got rid of me. It was her. She tried to sell me to a post stable where they beat me every day. When I ran back home, she had to return the money. That made her mad and she said I had to get out. The filthy bitch.” His voice broke and he jumped up, kicked the door of the shack open, and disappeared.

The door clattered shut, and Tora stared at it. Poor kid. He had at least been a grown man when his parents died. Kinjiro’s mother was either heartless or without choice in the matter, and the boy was taking her rejection hard. No wonder he had joined a gang.

Tora rested a little more and was just making up his mind to walk home, when Kinjiro returned. “You’re in,” he cried. “Kata wants to talk to you about the job.” Before Tora could ask for details, he was gone again.

Tora got up and walked out of the shed. The bright sun blinded him, but most of the dizziness was gone. He found a well. Kneeling on the stone coping, he lowered the wooden bucket by its old rope and pulled up water. It took three more buckets before he had rid himself of most of the caked blood in his hair and on his skin. His skull seemed to be in one piece, though it hurt like the devil. He washed out his shirt in the last bucket and draped it over the fence behind the training school to dry. He would stay long enough to find out what the job entailed.

Wearing only his short pants and hoping that the old scars on his upper body would look more impressive than a ragged shirt, he walked into the training hall. Kata stood talking to some students and ignored him. Tora did not see Matsue and went to sit on the trunk. After a while, the boy showed up with a paper-wrapped bundle.

The thought of working for Kata was still tempting. Of course he would have to get his information quickly, before Kata decided to send him out on a burglary or hold-up. He had an uneasy feeling that he should have planned things better.

Thinking made Tora’s head hurt worse. He decided to go back to his shack and take a little nap, but as he was shuffling away, Kata called out, “Hey, you. Tora.”

Tora turned and said humbly, “Yes,
Sensei?
”

Kata dismissed the students, then said, “Come here.”

Tora obliged and submitted to a close inspection of his wound. Kata tsked and shook his head. “How do you feel?”

A little surprised by the solicitude, Tora managed a grin. “Like I’ve a beehive in my head and the bees are trying to get out.”

Kata chuckled. “Matsue shouldn’t have struck so hard, but it was an accident.”

Tora’s grin faded. “It was no accident.”

“These things happen,” said Kata vaguely. “Anyway, you can have a job helping me in the training hall. I’ve seen you handle a sword. How are you at kickfighting and wrestling?”

“Not so good, but I can beat anybody with a pole.”

“Really?” Kata waved to the boy. “Kinjiro, get two poles.”

Tora bit his lip. His head pounded like blazes every time he moved. But he accepted the bamboo pole and took up his position. It was a short bout. After a few turns, Kata stepped away. “Yes,” he said, “I can see you’re good. You can teach me a few things.” He tossed the pole to Kinjiro, went to pick up the paper-wrapped package, and thrust it at Tora. “Put these on. The boy’ll take you to a house where you can stay tonight.”

Tora was so astonished by all this that he made Kata a deep bow. The pain that shot through his head added a touch of unintended emotion to his expression of gratitude.

“Never mind,” said Kata. “You’ll be useful. Maybe later I’ll let you help with some other business. How do you feel about the police?”

Tora stepped back and glowered. “I won’t have anything to do with them.” His memory of Lieutenant Ihara made him embellish a bit. “Those crooked devils treat poor bastards like filth while the rich can do no wrong. Greedy merchants rob their customers, and then they turn around and rob their workers by sending us away without wages. And if we complain to a constable, he’ll lock us up and beat us half to death for making trouble.”

Kata nodded. “I know. Police brutality. I noticed the fresh stripes on your back. We feel like you do and protect each other. That means we don’t talk about our business to anyone outside the family. How do you feel about that?”

“It’s an excellent rule.”

Kata laughed and patted his shoulder. Then Kinjiro took Tora’s arm to pull him away. Tora was nearly blinded by the agony inside his skull.

Tora changed in the shed, putting on a pair of full cotton trousers and a plain blue shirt. The jacket had been made for a man who was both shorter and much fatter than Tora, but it was comfortable.

“I got the best,” Kinjiro informed him. “Old Gunzaemon buys his used clothes only from the best people. Got a nice selection. Lots of people dying this year.”

Tora grunted. The stick-fighting bout had made him sick again and he did not feel like talking. He did not feel like walking either and shuffled along glumly, until Kinjiro had to grab his elbow when he veered and almost fell into a ditch. “Here,” cried the boy impatiently, “watch where you’re going.”

They crossed Suzaku Avenue, turning into the business quarter, and soon passed the market.

Emerging from his haze of pain, Tora stopped.

“Kinjiro,” he asked, “did you ever come here with Kata?”

Kinjiro looked impatient. “Kata
Sensei.
”

“Sorry. Kata
Sensei.
I’m not at my best today.”

The boy relented a little. “Yes, I’m here a lot. Why?”

“I think I saw Kata once. At the tower.”

“Listening to the blind woman, I bet.”

“Yes. Do you know her?”

“I know everybody. She got murdered. Kata
Sensei
was in a terrible temper when he heard. We all stayed away from him.”

This was puzzling. Had something gone wrong with an order Kata had given? “Why was he mad?”

But Kinjiro clammed up. “You ask too many questions. Forget it.”

After a moment Tora tried again. “How many people work for him?”

The boy looked at him suspiciously. “Why do you want to know that?”

“An important man’s in more danger. I was wondering how best to guard him.”

“He’s important. We keep our eyes open and our mouths shut. You heard what he said.”

Tora nodded. If Kata had a big operation, he might take drastic steps to stop a blind female from talking about his activities. “Good. I’ll be useful then. Where are we going?”

“Just a place.”

Tora sighed inwardly. This was like dipping water out of the ocean with an acorn shell. He decided it was his turn to be resentful. “Sorry I asked,” he said huffily.

The boy gave him a sidelong glance. Tora compressed his lips and looked straight ahead. After a moment, the boy said, “It’s just a house. Kata’s borrowing it.”

Tora said nothing.

“What’s the matter?” the boy demanded.

“Never mind. I thought we were friends,” said Tora heavily, “but I see you don’t like me. You don’t trust me either. I’ll be better off working elsewhere.”

“Don’t say that,” the boy cried. “I didn’t mean it. It’s just . . . you’ll get in trouble if you know too much.”

Tora pointed to his head. “I feel awful and I’m just trying to learn about the job.”

“I’m sorry. I want to be your friend, Tora. Honestly.”

Tora looked up at the sky. “Hmm.”

The boy caught his sleeve. “Please, Tora. I don’t have any friends. The others treat me like a kid. We could help each other. I’d look out for you and you for me.”

“We . . . ll . . .”

“Please?”

“Friends trust each other.”

“I trust you.”

“All right. Let’s see if you do. If I’m going to work for Kata
Sensei,
I’d like to know as much as I can about him and his people.”

Kinjiro’s eyes flickered. “I don’t know everything. And we’re not supposed to talk.”

“I thought I was one of you now. See, you don’t trust me. Never mind.”

“What do you want to know?”

“How do you like the boss?”

“I’d die for him. He makes sure I get plenty to eat and sometimes he tells me I’ve done well. He’s like a father. He looks after us. He finds us places to stay, and buys our food and wine. And if we get hurt, he gets a doctor. He sent me for new clothes for you when I told him how bloody you were. We all belong to Kata
Sensei.
”

“What about the work—anybody ever get killed?”

Kinjiro hesitated. “You mean us? Not so far. A few got arrested. It beats starving in the streets.”

“Hmm. And what does Matsue
Sensei
do for the boss?”

“They’re friends. Matsue
Sensei
is a great sword fighter but he can be mean.”

“I know.” Tora touched his head and grimaced. “But you say they argue. And he doesn’t teach. Why does Kata need him?”

“I’m not sure. Sometimes I think Matsue
Sensei
can lay his hands on money. Or maybe he knows something about Kata
Sensei.
”

“Ah. When Kata
Sensei
lost his temper about the blind woman’s murder? Did he argue with Matsue about that?”

“Maybe. Kata
Sensei
liked her a lot, but Matsue
Sensei
hated her.”

Tora stared at Kinjiro. “Kata liked her? And Matsue hated her?”

“Matsue
Sensei
would not go near her. He’d just stare at her from a distance. Weird. Like he didn’t think she was really blind. Once Kata tried to make him talk to her. He got so angry he walked off. Matsue
Sensei
is very strange.”

“Right.” Tora lost interest. The long walk had been too much. He was so exhausted he could barely see where he was going.

He was spared racking his painful head for more questions when they reached the quarter of the Eighth Street Gate, a quiet and respectable neighborhood where the houses were old and solid. This time of day the streets were empty and the shop fronts closed. Apparently everybody was at their evening rice. The place they sought was at the end of a block, a large one storied house. It presented windowless walls to its neighbor and the side street, but had sliding doors and shutters in front.

It seemed a strange hideout for Kata’s thugs. Surely the neighbors would not keep quiet about the comings and goings of shady characters. Tora decided that it must be a temporary refuge. Criminals tended to move from place to place, though Tora had never known any to live so well.

Kinjiro gave four quick taps to the door. A panel slid open, and then the door slid back with a squeak, revealing a scruffy-looking individual who nodded to the boy and eyed Tora suspiciously.

In the dim light from some high windows, Kinjiro led Tora down a stone-paved hallway past the empty raised shop front and into an equally empty kitchen. Here a strange mix of aromas greeted them: food, both fresh and stale, sweat, smoke, and—all-pervasive—the clean scent of aged wood.

The boy lifted the lid of a rice cooker. A white cloud of steam escaped and filled the air with a rich smell. “You hungry yet?”

Tora sniffed. “I could eat something. Where is everybody?”

“They’ll come later. After work.” Kinjiro found two bowls and filled them with rice from the pot. He located a tray of salted vegetables, ladled them on top of the rice, then fished some pickled radish from a barrel on the floor. Handing Tora one of the bowls, he said, “Come,” and headed farther along the dark corridor.

Tora followed. They walked in the dusty footprints of others past an interior garden, and stepped up into the main room of the house. It had once been the best room of a prosperous merchant family. The wooden beams and walls had darkened over the years, and many stockinged feet had polished the raised wooden boards to a deep luster, now dulled by dirt and scuff marks. In one corner the floor was charred black. Someone had either lit an open fire there or spilled burning charcoal and left it. It was a miracle the house had not burned down. Spills and food stains marred the floor where it was not covered with the abandoned belongings of prior occupants. Clothing and bedding lay about in heaps wherever they had been kicked.

“Whose house is this?” Tora asked, surprised. “Where are the servants? The family?”

Kinjiro went out on a narrow veranda overlooking the small garden and sat down. “It belongs to Buntaro. He’s second in command. No servants. Just an old man.” He started eating with the greedy appetite of a growing boy.