The Convict's Sword (42 page)

“I’m sorry to wake you.” Akitada squatted beside him. “How badly are you hurt?”

Tora grinned and whipped back the cover to reveal a thickly bandaged thigh. “Just a flesh wound. Seimei cleaned it and put some stinking salve on it. Feels better already.”

“And the others? Lady Sugawara is worried about smallpox.”

“They’ve just been knocked about a bit. The kid, Kinjiro, saved my life. The old man was locked up without food and water for days, but Seimei says he’ll come around.”

“Good.” Akitada hesitated. “Do you feel like talking now, or would you rather rest first?”

“Now. I’ve got to tell you. You’ll never believe it. That sword the swordsmith Sukenari lost? Matsue had it all along. And a lot of gold and silver besides.” Tora fumbled in his bedding and produced the sword.

Akitada glanced at it and laid it aside. “But what about the murder? Did you find out who killed the blind woman?”

Tora’s face fell. “No. I know who didn’t kill her. I figured it was Kata, but she was his good luck charm and he thinks his business is doomed now.” He gave a dry chuckle. “He may be right. It will be. He’s a gang boss.”

Genba came in and crouched on Tora’s other side. “How are you, brother?” he asked anxiously.

“I’ll do. What happened to your nose?”

“I put it where it didn’t belong.” Genba grinned. “Well, did you have any luck?”

Akitada said, “Apparently not. At least the court is not in session at the moment. The sickness has given us extra time. That reminds me. I’d better explain to my wife about our guests.”

Tamako still hovered in the darkness of the corridor. Akitada closed the door behind him and said, “They don’t have smallpox. Just assorted wounds and bruises.”

“Thank heaven.” She came a little closer. “You are quite sure?”

He was not, could not be certain that they did not have the seeds of the sickness inside them, but he said “yes” as firmly as he could.

“But to bring strangers here in the middle of the night. What can Tora be thinking of ?”

“Since Tora has some serious wounds and lost a good deal of blood, I thought I’d ask for explanations later. He says the boy saved his life.”

“Oh.” She brushed a hand across her face, as if sweeping away the fears that had clouded her usual consideration for others. “How badly is he hurt?”

“I imagine he’ll be fine in a day or so.”

“I’m glad. Who are the others?”

“I know nothing about them, but they’re our guests until they can care for themselves. We must honor Tora’s word.”

“Yes.” It was dim in the corridor, but he thought he saw her flush. “Yori is . . . I’ll get a room ready for them.” She slipped away before he could thank her or wonder what she had started to say.

When Akitada returned to the others, Genba was pressing a smelly poultice to his nose and blinking watery eyes. Akitada grinned and went to look at the two strangers. The old man was asleep, curled up under his covers, and Akitada had to lift the quilt to see his face. He looked sick and fragile and vaguely familiar. The boy, a scrawny creature of twelve or thirteen, was awake and staring up at him.

“I’m Sugawara Akitada,” said Akitada with a smile. “I understand you did Tora a great service.”

“It was nothing. Tora told me about you. He thinks you’re one of the heavenly generals come back to earth.”

Akitada chuckled. “I doubt even Tora would accuse me of that. Do you have a family, Kinjiro?”

“No.” The boy scowled and sat up. “And you might as well know I’ve been working for Kata. Collecting his dues from the merchants every week. Don’t worry. I won’t stay long.” He said it defiantly, as if he expected Akitada would throw him out of the house.

“Kata was running a protection racket,” Tora said helpfully.

“Oh, I see.” Akitada sighed. The boy was a member of a criminal gang. He hoped Tamako would not find out. “I trust you’ve left Kata’s employ.”

Tora said, “He did. He’s a good kid. Couldn’t help himself. His father’s dead and his mother threw him out.”

“I can speak for myself,” muttered Kinjiro.

Akitada looked at his thin body and sharp features. Kinjiro was at the age when a child just begins to want to be a man, and this child had been plunged into the worst kind of adulthood before he was ready. He said a little more warmly, “I’m very sorry for your troubles, Kinjiro. Since Tora vouches for you, you’re welcome here and I will do my best to help you make a better start.”

“He wants to be a scribe like his father,” suggested Tora.

The boy swung around angrily. “I said . . .” But he did not finish. Instead he turned back to Akitada. “My father taught me to write, sir. I’m not very good yet. I think it would please him if I became what he was. If you could help me find a teacher, I’d work for you for nothing—for the rest of my life.”

Akitada was moved and amused by the offer. “Well, we must try to accommodate you then,” he said with a smile. “Now get some rest.”

Tora looked tired and in pain, but was blessedly alive. Akitada sat beside him and said impulsively, “Thank heaven you’re back with us. I was so worried.”

Tora grinned. “I know. I saw your face when you came in.”

They smiled at each other, while Seimei busied himself with Genba’s nose, and Kinjiro looked away.

“The sword I brought back,” Tora said after a moment. “Will you look at it? I think it’s the Sukenari sword. I wonder why Matsue had it.”

Akitada frowned. “Who’s Matsue?”

“Oh, didn’t I say? He’s the guy we’re looking for. The one that looks like Haseo. Only not up close. He’s Kata’s partner and a master sword fighter. He wounded me, but I cut off his fingers so he won’t ever fight again. He’s a nasty bastard. Enjoys hurting people.” Tora grimaced and rubbed his head.

Akitada stared at him. “You surprise me. I met him tonight. He acted very fierce in spite of his wounded hand, until I mentioned Haseo. Then he panicked. There must be some relationship between them.”

“There is. His real name’s Sangoro. There were papers in his trunk. Sword-fighting certificates mostly, and a couple of other things. He’s got a farm in Tsuzuki district. But I found another paper that had the word ‘Utsunomiya’ on it. I was going to give it to you, but they caught me before I could get home, and Matsue snatched it back. He was livid. Like I’d caught him in some crime or something.”

“They caught you? You mean Kata’s gang?”

Tora nodded. “That snake of a beggar from the market told them I was a spy for the police. When Matsue found his paper on me, I figured it was all over. They meant to kill me. Kinjiro saved my life by helping me get away.”

“You took a terrible and foolish risk.”

Tora nodded. “I know. But I did get the goods on Matsue.” Knowing Tora’s limited reading skills, Akitada wished he had the piece of paper Tora had found. He sighed and looked at the sword. “It seems to be the right sword,” he said doubtfully.

“Look at the tong.”

Akitada unfastened the blade and read Sukenari’s name and the date. He also saw faint traces of blood. “Yes,” he said, “you’re quite right. Sukenari will be very glad to have it back. It needs cleaning.”

“I’ll get some oil in a moment. It’s a very fine blade. Sliced right through Matsue’s sword hand.”

Kinjiro piped up, “You should’ve killed him. Real fighters always fight to the death. Matsue would’ve killed you.”

“If you prevailed against a great swordsman, Tora, then the gods were truly in it,” said Akitada. “I must give them my special thanks.”

The boy said, “You’re very lucky to have a man like Tora, sir.”

“I know.”

“Pah.” Tora looked embarrassed. “It was the spirit in the sword. Besides, he wasn’t such a great swordsman after all to lose to a mere soldier.”

The door opened and Tamako came in, followed by her maid. They carried trays of food and flasks of wine. Akitada jumped up. “Thank you, but we can serve ourselves,” he said, hoping the women would leave quickly.

Tamako peered over his shoulder. “Oh, Tora,” she cried, “how very sorry I am that you have been wounded.”

Tora covered his bloody bandage and tried to make her a bow. “It’s just a little scratch, my lady.”

“If you feel at all feverish, you must let me know. I have some herbs that are supposed to be particularly good when a wound becomes infected.” She passed the tray to Akitada. “Please make our guests welcome.”

The maid put down the wine, and the two women left.

“The old man seems very familiar,” Akitada said, setting the tray on the floor and nodding toward the sleeper.

“Mr. Chikamura says he knows you.” Tora reached and helped himself to a bowl of stewed fish and vegetables.

“Mr. Chikamura?” cried Akitada in surprise.

“Who’s calling?” muttered the old man and sat up slowly. He blinked, rubbed his eyes and broke into a toothless smile. “My lord,” he said. “What great kindness and honor you show a poor old man! You won’t believe it, but that depraved nephew of mine came back with his villains and they locked me up in my own storehouse because I threatened them with the police. I thought I was a dead man. I’d just about given up and assigned my soul to Amida, when Tora rescued me. May Amida bless both of you.” Wheezing with the effort, he got on his knees and knocked his head on the floor a few times.

Akitada said quickly, “Please don’t exert yourself. I’m very sorry for your ordeal and will see to it that your nephew is locked up instead. Now make yourself comfortable. Here is food. Come Seimei, and you too, Kinjiro.”

Mr. Chikamura crawled closer and accepted a bowl of rice from Kinjiro, “No need to bother about Buntaro,” he told Akitada. “Tora killed him.”

Akitada’s jaw sagged. He looked at Tora. “You killed a man?”

“He killed two,” Kinjiro corrected proudly. “He tricked the Scarecrow—that’s Buntaro—to slash Genzo’s throat from ear to ear, and then he took Genzo’s knife and rammed it all the way into the Scarecrow’s chest. They bled buckets of blood on the floor.”

“Heavens,” murmured Akitada. “You have been busy, Tora.”

“He’s a great warrior,” cried Mr. Chikamura, who had eaten with good appetite and was becoming talkative. “After he fought Matsue, he went out to get rid of my nosy neighbor, and then they put me on a ladder, along with the bags of money, and carried me most of the way. When some constables tried to stop us, they told them I was dead from smallpox and they were gonna take me to Toribeno.” Mr. Chikamura emptied a cup of wine and giggled. “The constables just backed away and covered their noses.” He held out his cup, drank down the refill, and continued, “This smallpox—they say it flies through the air and if your Karma is bad, it’ll enter your body. Maybe they should beat a drum to scare the flying devils away.”

“We must hope that we’re safe,” said Akitada with a smile, but he was concerned. Seimei passed around more food and poured wine for Akitada and Tora, but he only gave tea to Kinjiro, who drank very little and ate nothing.

Akitada saw that Tora looked tired and drawn. He felt guilty but asked, “Did you learn anything about the murdered woman?”

Tora made a face. “Not much. She may have been Kata’s good luck charm, but Matsue hated her. Kinjiro says he used to watch her in the market.” The boy nodded listlessly. “I’d made up my mind to kill the bastard for Tomoe’s murder, but he said he didn’t do it.”

Akitada raised his brows. “And you believed that?”

“I’d just cut off his sword hand. He figured he was a dead man, so why lie?”

“And nothing else turned up?”

Tora shook his head.

Akitada sighed. “All this trouble, and we’re back where we started.” He got up. “I’ve plagued you enough for tonight. We’ll talk again tomorrow, and I’ll see to Sukenari’s sword. Get some sleep now, Tora.”

Mr. Chikamura had listened and now piped up, “That sword is Matsue’s. He told Buntaro it belonged to his family, and he’s the last of them. Everybody else is dead.”

Tora said tiredly, “Then he lied,” and lay down and closed his eyes.

In Akitada’s room a candle shed unsteady light on his desk and shelves of books. The doors to the garden were open, the blackness beyond silent and unfathomable. Tamako had spread out his bedding for him. He was not sure whether to be grateful or take it as a signal that he was not welcome in her room. He laid a square of cotton across his desk, placed Sukenari’s sword on it, and got out the cleaning materials. His father had kept these in a fine old sandalwood box and had taken pains to teach Akitada to care for swords. Sometimes it surprised Akitada that a scholar like the elder Sugawara had never forgotten respect for the military traditions of their ancestors. In later years he had come to be grateful for his father’s teachings, though he would never feel love for his stern and cold parent. Even now, as he laid out the stoppered bottle of clove oil, the small silk bag containing the fine whetstone dust, the batch of thick cleaning papers, and the small picks and mallets, he cringed inwardly at the memories of his boyhood.

But the cleaning of swords had become such a habit that he soon lost himself in the activity. He thought of his own sword. It had become his after his father’s death. Anger at the thieves who took it helped ease the unpleasant feeling in his belly that memories of his father always brought. Unlike his father, he had used the sword, and in that he found a sense of validation, almost as if he were still competing with a dead man.

The Sugawara sword was longer than Sukenari’s and a good deal heavier, but it had a very good blade nevertheless. He intended to get it back, though perhaps Yori would some day decide to order another, more modern sword. Soon it would be time to initiate his son into the secrets of taking proper care of a real sword.

Akitada wondered if Yori would approach the lesson as fearfully as the young Akitada had. Unwelcome memories of tearful battles over Yori’s poor writing skills came to his mind. Was Tamako right? Had he been asking too much of the child? Was he repeating his father’s sins? He had meant it for the best. A father had a duty to equip his son for the challenges of adulthood. Thanks to his own father, Akitada had known how to face danger and hardship when he met them.