The Convict's Sword (43 page)

Suddenly his eyes burned with unshed tears for the lost chance to thank his father. Oh, how to bridge the chasm between father and son? Yori loved Tora, and Akitada had noticed that Tora became like a child when he was with children. Why could he not be more like Tora?

He sighed and looked at Sukenari’s sword. The blood stains on the scabbard were beyond him, but the blade must be cleaned before it rusted. Blood was as damaging as water to a fine blade. Tora had wiped off the worst, but he must make certain that none was left under the hilt. With one of the small tools, he removed the peg that held the blade inside the hilt and slipped it free. Matsue had cared well for the stolen sword. Whatever his background and current occupation, the robber had loved this weapon. As he rubbed on the cleaning oil, Akitada looked at the master’s signature. The date was six years ago, one year before his dead friend’s life had fallen apart. Strange that Sukenari should have made a sword for another Haseo.

With the last trace of the bloody encounter between Tora and Matsue removed, Akitada lightly dabbed cleaning powder on both sides of the blade and used a fresh piece of paper to polish it. The blade was beautifully made, and he was very tempted to order a new sword for himself. In the flickering light, the lines produced by fusing the layers of steel began to undulate and shimmer along the deadly edge. How very close were art and violence! The moment of creation already contained the seeds of death. And the gods governed both.

Akitada shivered. A cool breeze blew in from the garden. When he turned, he saw that the trees rose dark against a faintly lighter sky. If he hurried, he could get an hour’s sleep before going to work. Turning back to his chore, he applied the fresh oil carefully and then reassembled blade and hilt. The sword guard was very finely made. He looked at the gilded pine branches and the thatched roof of some dwelling. What had Sukenari said? Pines and a Shinto shrine. Family emblems of some sort. Yes, it was a shrine roof. And then he had the oddest thought. The words for pine (
utsu
) and for shrine (
miya
) would sound like the name Utsunomiya! Could it be? Was this Haseo’s sword after all?

Sukenari had known and liked a man called Haseo. Akitada searched his memory, but could not recall that man’s family name. Five years had passed since the day his friend had died in his arms on a distant island. Akitada had asked the dying man for his surname. But perhaps Haseo’s mind had wandered already on that dark path? He had suffered a deep and dreadful wound to the stomach and was bleeding to death and in great pain. Heaven knew Akitada had not been very rational himself.

The awful memories came flooding back then, and with them the awareness—often acknowledged but never acted on—that he owed a great debt to the man who had saved his life and then lost his own.

Akitada fingered the sword guard. The emblems had been important to its owner, whatever his name had been. No wonder none of the official records had turned up any trace of anyone called Utsunomiya Haseo. For all Akitada knew, Haseo’s story had always lain there among the dusty trial records on the shelves of the Ministry of Justice and in one of the document boxes of old forgetful Kunyoshi.

His heart beating with excitement, Akitada replaced the sword in its scabbard and rose. There was no time for sleep now. He must see Sukenari right away.

A short time later, without having bothered to change his robe or eat his morning rice, Akitada strode down Suzako Avenue with the sword slung over his shoulder. He probably made a strange and frightening sight, unshaven and bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, in an old robe and armed. It did not matter. At this cool and slightly misty hour of the morning, the wide street was abnormally empty, and the few people he saw looked worse than he did. Dawn broke splendidly over the many roofs of his beloved city, gilding the roofs and sparkling off the distant tops of the twin pagodas of the Eastern and Western temples. Before him stretched the lines of willows in full leaf, their long branches sweeping the ground and reaching for the waters of the wide canal. But no children fed the ducks from the arched bridges that spanned the canal. No idlers rested under the trees. A monk and a few frightened creatures hurried on some urgent errands, keeping well clear of each other, and a solitary horseman headed for the palace. The city itself seemed to be sickening.

To his relief, Sukenari was awake and untouched by the disease. He welcomed Akitada with formal courtesy. Only a flicker of his eyelids showed his surprise when he saw the sword on Akitada’s back. He asked no questions until he had seated his guest and offered him a cup of warmed wine.

Akitada accepted gratefully. He presented the sword and explained how Tora had found it. Sukenari received it with a delighted smile and a bow. He immediately pulled the blade.

Akitada said quickly, “I cleaned it, but perhaps not as well as I should have. Tora had to use the sword against the man. He cut off the man’s fingers.”

“Ah, did he? It looks fine, just fine,” said Sukenari, turning it lovingly this way and that. “Yes, it is my sword—or rather, it’s not mine. I wonder if I can find its owner.”

Akitada tried to restrain his excitement. “That’s why I came so early. It just occurred to me . . . that is, you mentioned someone called Haseo. Was it his sword by any chance?”

“Yes, indeed. A very nice young man and a fine swordsman. He came to the capital to study swordsmanship, and when he thought he was worthy of a good sword, he came to me. After that he returned once or twice to let me polish the sword, but he’s not been back for many years now. I have forgotten where his home was, but it was near a famous shrine. That’s why he wanted the decorations. The shrine for a pure life and the pine for a long one. A family tradition, I believe.”

Akitada leaned forward. “What was his surname?”

“Tomonari.” The smith looked curious, but was too polite to ask.

“Tomonari. Yes.” Akitada sat back with a small sigh of satisfaction. “I think I met your Haseo. I thought he was telling me his name, but the detail on the sword guard makes me think that he was referring to a family motto. Did your young man say anything about his people?”

Sukenari was fascinated. “He didn’t explain, but he insisted on the decoration. We ask our clients what designs they want on the sword guard and the scabbard. But what happened to him?”

“He died in exile in Sadoshima.”

Sukenari became very still. “In exile?” he murmured. “But how could that be? He was a good man. Did he use this sword to kill someone?”

“I don’t know the circumstances of his crime yet, but he insisted that he was innocent. My friend was a big man, with broad shoulders and a strong black beard, but he wasn’t young. I would have judged him to be a little older than I am, perhaps in his forties.”

Sukenari looked dazed and sad. “Yes. He probably was. He had no beard then. I thought of him as young because he acted like a boy sometimes. He smiled and laughed a great deal, and he walked and moved with such energy—well, he seemed young to me. How very sad to suffer such a fate for no reason.”

“He saved my life.”

“Ah, at least he did not die in vain. Poor young man.”

Sukenari persisted in calling Haseo young. Akitada’s memory had been of someone who was both mature and joyless. Haseo had hardly spoken until the last few days of his life, and he certainly had not smiled until the moment when he had realized that he might see his family again. Akitada said, “Did he talk about his family? There were three wives and five children, I think.”

Sukenari shook his head. “Wives and children? How pitiful! No, we only talked about swords and sword handling. Once, early on, I got the feeling that his visits to the capital didn’t meet with his family’s approval. Sword fighting often becomes a passion. Men have been known to abandon their families for it.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t think Haseo did. The one who had his sword seems to be such a man, though. His name is Matsue, I believe.”

“Ah, I’ve heard the name. He has a bad reputation, that one. How did he come to have this sword?”

“That I must find out.” Akitada rose and bowed. “I’ve taken up too much of your time. Thank you for your help and hospitality.”

Sukenari said quickly, “But the sword. It’s not mine. Will you take it? Perhaps it will help you find Haseo’s family.”

Akitada hesitated, then accepted and slung the sword across his shoulder again.

From Sukenari, he went to the ministry and found it was a day for more surprises. The main hall was deserted, though it was broad daylight by now and working hours had started a long time ago. Not even a scribe or attendant seemed to be in the building. He passed through the hall to his office and heard muffled voices behind the closed door. When he opened it, he found Nakatoshi and Sakae in deep conference at his desk. They both jumped up and stared at him.

He frowned his disapproval. “What are you doing?”

Nakatoshi bowed first. “Good morning, sir,” he said. “Sorry about using your office, but we didn’t want to be overheard.”

“Really? Why? Nobody else seems to be working today,” Akitada said peevishly, “and you two looked surprised to see me.”

They exchanged glances. Nakatoshi flushed, but Sakae was made of sterner stuff. He said excitedly, “We just had a messenger, sir. Minister Soga has died. Of smallpox. It seemed best to discuss the matter in private.” He extended a piece of paper.

Akitada stared at him, then at Nakatoshi, who nodded. The letter appeared to be from some abbot. It was addressed to the person in charge at the ministry and contained the brief announcement that the minister had succumbed the evening before. “To be reborn into the western realm,” the abbot had concluded. Perhaps the sickness in his village had prevented him from adding more detail.

“Did either of you know that Soga was ill?” Akitada asked, looking at the clerks sharply.

They shook their heads. Nakatoshi said, “You may recall, sir, that they refused to receive our messenger. I thought it very strange since his Excellency had demanded daily reports. I think he must have become ill very shortly after leaving here.”

Sakae was smiling to himself. Akitada cleared his throat pointedly, and his clerk adopted a mournful look. “We wondered,” he said, “if the Great Council has been notified. Now that you are here perhaps I could carry your message to them?” When Akitada looked at him in astonishment, Sakae added, “To save you changing into proper attire, I mean.”

Akitada glanced down at his old robe. He had neither slept nor shaved, and his clothes were by now dirty. He could hardly make an appearance in the highest office of the government looking like this. No doubt Sakae also had ulterior motives: It could not hurt one’s career to make oneself known to the chancellor and his staff. Akitada had intended to send Nakatoshi, but he could spare Sakae more easily. He had to see Kobe to tell him that Tora had returned, and he wanted to begin a search of the archives. So he nodded and sat down to write the short cover letter, impressed his seal, enclosed the abbot’s note, and handed the whole to Sakae.

Nakatoshi looked after Sakae and sighed.

“I would have sent you, but I need you to be here this morning,” said Akitada by way of an apology. “I have some urgent business to attend to.”

Nakatoshi’s eyes flicked over Akitada’s rumpled appearance and stopped at the sword that lay across the late Soga’s desk. “But,” he stammered, “the death of the minister . . . how shall I manage, sir?”

Akitada knew that his behavior was eccentric and inappropriate, but he was thoroughly tired of more problems. He had spent a night being attacked, had dealt with a hysterical wife and unexpected house guests with assorted wounds, and had tried to make sense of all the startling and puzzling revelations about Haseo and the villain Matsue. At the moment his duties at the ministry—and there could not be many while the epidemic raged in the city—were the least of his worries. He snapped, “What you have done all along. Receive messages and relay them to me. Don’t tell me that Soga’s death will change the routine. Sakae was eager enough to step into my shoes. Perhaps you can cover for the late minister for an hour or so.”

Nakatoshi turned red. “Yes, sir. Only, what will happen to us? Will they send someone else to take the minister’s place?”

“No doubt in time.”

Nakatoshi hung his head. “Yes, sir. I wish it could be you, sir.”

Akitada gave a sharp laugh. “Good heavens, what an idea! Ministers hold at least the senior fourth rank. I’m not likely to achieve that illustrious status in my lifetime.” He saw Nakatoshi’s dejected face and said more kindly, “Thank you for your high opinion. For a moment there I was afraid I’d lost it. I’m not exactly my usual self today because I’ve had no sleep. In fact, there was no time for a shave or to change my robe before coming here.”

“I hope all is well at your home, sir?”

“Yes, so far. Tora got into some more trouble. I’m on my way now to speak to Superintendent Kobe. I assume there’s no urgent business here?”