The Convict's Sword (39 page)

Tora looked around wildly and realized that the voice had come from the other side of the garden wall. Someone was in the yard.

Then came Kinjiro’s voice, in a loud whisper. “Sssh! It was an accident. Don’t worry. It’ll be fixed.” Kinjiro sounded nervous.

“I don’t believe you. Come here.”

Kinjiro squealed.

With a muttered curse, Tora jumped up and ran back into the room. Matsue had not moved. His eyes were closed, and he was white from shock or loss of blood. Old Chikamura was sitting up. Tora cried, “Keep an eye on him and call me if he tries anything,” then dashed down the corridor.

In the moonlit yard, he found a large woman who stood with her back to him and had a grip on Kinjiro’s ear. When the boy saw Tora, his face brightened. He cried, “Make her let go of me.”

The woman gave her prey a sharp and painful shake and rasped, “You won’t fool me with that old trick, you little bastard. I’m past putting up with you lying, thieving rogues over here. I want to see Chikamura now.”

Tora hid his sword behind his back and cleared his throat.

She let go then and swung around to glare at him. “So there’s more of you bastards. I’m not afraid of you either.” Advancing on Tora, she said defiantly, “Come on, you big villain, I dare you lay a hand on me.”

Tora stepped back quickly. “No, no, madam, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not with those crooks. The boy and I came to free the old man. His nephew locked him in the storehouse and left him to die.”

She looked from him to the open door of the storehouse. The broken lock and empty water bowl seemed to convince her, but she was still suspicious. “The boy’s one of them,” she said, shooting a venomous glance at Kinjiro, who was rubbing his ear and sticking out his tongue at her. “I want to see Chikamura.”

Before Tora could answer, a weak shout came from inside the house. “Look,” he pleaded, “that was Chikamura. He isn’t well. I’ve got to go.”

“I’m coming, too.”

“No, don’t,” Tora cried, raising his bloody sword. She goggled at the sword and backed away. With a little scream, she turned to stumble across the rubble of the wall.

Tora did not wait to watch her go, but rushed back inside. Chikamura was still sitting there, but Matsue had gone. Chikamura cried, “Hurry! He’s run away. Out the front door.”

Tora sighed and sat down abruptly. “Never mind,” he said tiredly. “Let him go. We’ve got to leave. Your neighbor’s going to call the constables down on us.” He stared at the stained blade of his sword, and reached for one of the rags to clean it. The scabbard was lying in a puddle of Matsue’s blood. He went and got it. The blood had stained the white covering. Tora dabbed at the spot and then inserted the blade. He hoped the swordsmith could clean it properly. Then he looked at his leg. The cut was in his upper thigh, deep but clean. It had bled copiously earlier, but hardly oozed now. Taking off his shirt, he tore it into strips to make a thick bandage for his leg.

Kinjiro crept in. He stared at the puddle of blood and Matsue’s fingers. “You didn’t kill him?”

“No. But he can’t fight anymore. His sword hand is useless.”

“Wrong,” said the boy. “You should’ve killed him.”

Tora straightened up and looked at him. “It takes more than killing someone or winning a fight to be a man. There’s been enough killing here. Now you can help me get the old man away before any more of Kata’s thugs show up.”

“Where are we going?”

“Home. Go get the ladder. We’ll put the old man on it all wrapped up. If a constable tries to stop us, we’ll pretend it’s his funeral. I’m the son and you’re the grandson. He’ll keep his distance.”

“No,” squeaked old Chikamura, scrambling to his feet. “I’m not dead. I can walk. We’ll get the police. They’ll arrest the crooks. Look at what they’ve done to my house. This time I’ll lay charges against Buntaro and his rotten friends.”

“Ah, hmm,” said Tora, “there’s something I forgot to tell you. There was a fight earlier. I’m very sorry, old man, but I had to kill your nephew.”

Chikamura stared at him. Then he said, “Good riddance. Never could stand him. Nothing like the rest of the family. I swear my brother’s wife must’ve lain with a demon.”

Tora breathed a sigh of relief. “All right. Let’s go then.”

The old man shook his head. “I’m not going to Toribeno. I’m not dead.”

Tora began to pull at his hair. “We’re not going to Toribeno. We’re going to my master’s house. He’s Lord Sugawara. You’ll be safe there, and old Seimei will mix you one of his tonics to make you feel like a young man again.”

Chikamura’s eyes widened. “The great and wise Lord Sugawara from the Ministry of Justice?”

“That’s the one. Now will you come?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE EVIL OMEN

 

 

 

The great and wise Lord Sugawara was at his wit’s end. Tamako had consulted a fortune-teller, and when he got home, she was pacing the floor and ringing her hands.

“Our son will die,” she greeted him, “and you are to blame.”

Akitada, having barely had time to slip out of his shoes before being faced with this latest crisis, wished himself elsewhere. “Tamako,” he said wearily, “Genba is making preparations to take you to Akiko in the morning. All will be well.”

“All will be well?” she cried. “All will be well? The soothsayer says this house is under a dark cloud and he sees death. And right after he left, a letter from your sister came; she thinks one of their servants has the illness. But you won’t care. You never cared for anything but your work.”

Akitada sighed. “Poor Akiko. I hope she’s wrong. Of course you cannot go there under the circumstances, but you may still go to our farm if you don’t mind the discomfort. Or, since you had planned to stay here in any case, you may want to take your chances . . .”

“What chances? It’s too late.” She burst into tears. “Oh, it is too late. My poor Yori will die. My boy, my only child.” She collapsed on the floor and wailed.

Akitada had never seen Tamako, or any other woman, in hysterics. He was so shocked that he looked at his wife of six years with the eyes of a stranger. Was she possessed? Feverish? Near madness? Perhaps it was her anger at him which had brought on this violent and uncharacteristic outburst. The best policy was to withdraw from her presence to his study as quickly and quietly as possible.

But he could not do it. Instead he went to her, knelt, and gathered her to himself. “Ssh,” he soothed, stroking her disordered hair and rocking her shaking body against his. “Ssh, my dear. These are frightening times, and you worry about Yori, but surely he’s well, isn’t he?”

Her sobs subsided a little and she nodded.

“There, you see. He is a very healthy, strong child. I’m surprised you would allow a fortune-teller to upset you so much.”

She sat up a little and wiped her face with a sleeve. “It wasn’t just the fortune-teller. I had a dream,” she said brokenly. “Not once, but several times. The first time I dreamt you and I were in mourning clothes. It was nighttime at Toribeno. There was a pyre and the flames were licking upward. I woke up weeping.”

Akitada could imagine how vivid that nightmare had been. They had attended two funerals together: his mother’s and her father’s. He said soothingly, “I am sorry, my dear, but you are fearful for Yori and that has brought back memories of your father’s death.”

She shook her head. “No. There were two more dreams. I was back at Toribeno, but I was alone. I went to place the familiar things into the coffin and to offer a final meal. But when I looked I had Yori’s sword in my hand, the wooden one you bought for him, and his favorite jacket, and . . . and a tray of jam-filled cakes.” She buried her face against him again and began to weep anew. Akitada held her, miserable that he did not know how to help her. They sat there, she weeping her heart out and he glumly contemplating the troubles which seemed to have befallen his family.

Much later, she detached herself and said in an almost normal tone, “After dreaming for the third time, I sent for the fortune-teller. I hoped he would tell me my dream meant something else. But he merely looked sad, muttered the words about the black cloud, offered some condolence, and left. Oh, Akitada, I’m so afraid.”

Feeling a great sense of pity, Akitada got up and extended a hand to her. “Come. You’re overtired. We will go to your room and see what’s to be done.”

She clutched at his hand and got to her feet. “Then you do think it will come true?” she cried, eyes widening with new panic.

Akitada put an arm around her. “No, I do not,” he said firmly, walking her toward her room. “I think your fears have destroyed your peace of mind and I’m anxious to have my normal, sensible, cheerful wife back.” He looked to see if that had raised a smile or word of acknowledgment, but she detached herself abruptly and said bitterly, “I must seem a dreadful burden to you.”

He sighed inwardly. “No more than I am a burden to you, my dear. We are husband and wife, after all. It’s proper that we should care about each other.” It occurred to him that Tamako had not shown the slightest interest in his troubles for a long time now, but he put the thought aside.

She paused at the door to her room and brushed a limp hand over her forehead. “I have a headache,” she said dully. “Perhaps I’d better try to rest. Thank you for your concern. You must have many other things on your mind.” Without looking at him, she disappeared inside, closing the door gently but firmly in his face.

So that was that. For a moment he had felt close to his wife again, and the idea of first sharing their worries and then perhaps her bed had been on his mind, but it was not to be. Disappointed, he went to his study. He felt utterly alone and neglected. Seimei brought him some tea, and Akitada was ridiculously grateful for the small gesture.

“I’m very worried about Tora,” he confessed to Seimei. “It’s not like him to stay away so long. I think I must go to Kobe and ask if the police have any news.” He did not add that if they did it would be bad.

Seimei understood and said, “Surely the superintendent would have informed you.” But instead of commenting as usual on Tora’s indestructible good luck, he murmured something about distressing times.

Akitada thought of his last meeting with Kobe. “The trouble is, I’m afraid I have offended the good superintendent.”

This disconcerted Seimei. “How is that possible? You have always had great respect for him.”

“I did. I do. It was all a misunderstanding.” How little his proud memorial mattered now.

“In that case, you should certainly clear up the matter immediately,” Seimei said firmly. “Remember, a man’s actions will return to him.”

Akitada sighed. He had only just got home and was tired, and the prospect of making an apology was very unpleasant. But he got to his feet obediently. “You’re quite right, as always. I’d better go now before he leaves for the day.”

The sun was setting over another hot, dry day. As Akitada crossed the Greater Palace grounds, a golden haze of dust hung over the curved roofs and mottled the green of the trees. At this hour the palace streets were usually crowded with officials and clerks on their way home, but not today. There was some activity around the emperor’s and the crown prince’s residential compounds, but this was mostly an increased presence of guards. Few officials walked between offices, and in the Shingon Temple a prayer service was being held. The Greater Palace was so quiet it made Akitada think that the government took no notice of the troubled city beyond its gates.

The atmosphere was very different at police headquarters. Here the courtyard bustled with red-coated constables and police officers, and small groups of unsavory-looking men stood about chatting. Akitada stopped a harried young policeman who took him to the superintendent. Kobe was in a large hall, bent over a table covered with papers and maps. Lower-ranking officers sat at desks, reading documents or writing reports as constables carried messages or stacks of documents between them. Kobe did not look up when Akitada reached his side. He asked impatiently, “Yes, what is it now?”