The Convict's Sword (8 page)

Tora looked back over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Kata was training them to be bandits.”

“And the fellow who ran away was one of them. When he saw us looking at him, he got frightened.”

Tora looked down at himself. “Amida,” he muttered. “I think you’ve got it. I look like a thief-taker to them. Should’ve worn my sword.”

Akitada suppressed a smile. Having once belonged to the class not permitted to wear or use a sword, Tora was inordinately proud of his present status as a retainer.

But life is a candle in the wind, and not all men can have what they wish for. Akitada had hoped for a modest career of legal scholarship, drafting codes and writing commentaries on the law, or perhaps a minor governorship administering those laws in some distant province. Instead he had been assigned to the Ministry of Justice, where a vengeful Soga had kept him at dull paperwork. And now he had even lost that position. And he had failed again to keep his promise to Haseo. As head of his family, for his people, and for his son’s future, he must return to duty until Soga returned. And then he must suffer Soga’s insults in order to avoid a negative evaluation that would make it impossible to get another appointment.

But sacrifices are not without their rewards. Happy laughter greeted him at home. Genba was cavorting about the lantern-lit courtyard with Yori on his back as Seimei and Tamako watched from the veranda.

Genba had joined Akitada’s household shortly before his master’s marriage and had made himself indispensable without quite achieving the closeness that existed between Tora and his master. For one thing, Genba was too much in awe of his master. He was a huge man, taller than either Akitada or Tora, both of whom were above average, and he was quite fat these days. He had developed a passion for food when he had prepared to become a wrestler.

Now his face was red from exertion, and sweat glistened on his bulging neck as he pranced and huffed around in a circle, his belly and buttocks bobbing, while Yori shouted and made passes with his sword at the straw man Tora had built.

Tora gave a sharp whistle, and Genba whinnied and stopped, letting the boy slip from his shoulders before he trotted to the house and collapsed on the veranda steps.

“Father, Father,” cried Yori, catapulting himself into Akitada’s arms. “I hit him six, no, seven times. It could have been more, but Genba is so slow and clumsy.”

“Genba is no horse,” said his father. The big man was wiping the sweat off his crimson face, and his huge chest rose and fell as he drew breath. “Perhaps we should get you a small horse instead. What do you think, Tora?”

Tora was dubious. “Not many around that are small enough. Maybe a donkey?”

“No,” shouted Yori, outraged. “A horse. A proper horse. I shall not sit on a donkey.”

Tamako called out anxiously, “You are too young for a horse, my son. Wait a few years first.”

Akitada regretted his rash offer. Putting Yori down, he said, “I shall consider your request, Yori, when your writing improves.”

He went to greet Tamako and Seimei and then sat down beside Genba to remove his shoes. He was very tired. They had walked far, and his old leg injury still ached occasionally.

Seimei said, “That nice young man from the ministry stopped by on his way home.”

Akitada’s heart stopped for a moment. He looked up at the old man. “Some problem at the ministry?”

“No, sir. He said to tell you that all was quiet
still.
His exact words. I wondered why he would bother to bring such a message.”

But Akitada knew. Nakatoshi had warned him that, though Soga had not returned today, he might be back tomorrow. Well, it was settled. Akitada would return to work in the morning. The game was over—and he had lost.

He had little appetite for his evening rice that night and soon retreated to his own room. Taking a slim roll of brocade from the bookshelf, he went out onto the veranda. The air had cooled off and it was quite dark, but a few stars glimmered in the heavens. This was the time of night when trees and shrubs took on an impenetrable blackness and loomed against the lighter sky and the faint glow of the city beyond. He thought of the blind woman. Once he had been buried underground for many days and found his terror of the darkness had been greater than his fear of his captors. Tora was right: People should not turn their backs on those whose distress was manifest. He would at least listen to the woman’s problem.

From the corner of the house, a cicada called, and another answered from the neighboring garden. Now and then there was a small splash, as one of the carp in the tiny fishpond jumped for an insect.

Akitada unrolled the brocade and took out his flute. He touched the familiar shape lovingly. As always, when he placed the flute to his lips and began to play, his sadness lifted, the tension in his muscles eased, and his mind emptied itself of worries. He felt as light as a moth on the night wind.

Much, much later he stopped. He was still tired, but his mind was calm now. Putting the flute back into its cover, he rose and went inside. Someone had spread his bedding. Tamako. He felt vaguely guilty but was too tired to go to her. Taking off his robe, he slipped under the quilt and closed his eyes.

In that last half-conscious moment before sleep, it occurred to him that the swordsmith had said something significant, but he was too tired to remember.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE BLIND STREET SINGER

 

 

 

Seimei shook him awake long before he was ready. Heavy with unfinished sleep, he struggled to a sitting position. It was pitch dark outside, but Akitada customarily arrived at the ministry before sunrise. “Is it time already?” he grumbled. “I feel as if I’d just lain down.”

“No, sir. It’s Tora.”

“What?” Akitada rubbed his eyes and blinked against the light of the flickering candle. “What does he want in the middle of the night?”

“He’s been arrested for murder. Someone from the Metropolitan Police is outside. Tora gave your name, and they sent an officer.”

“It must be a ridiculous mistake. Tell them Tora is here. He came back with me.” Akitada lay back down with a sigh of mingled irritation and relief.

“Tora is not here, sir. He left again after you retired.”

Akitada sat up again, wide awake now. “He left again? Why? Where did he go?”

“I don’t know, sir.” Seimei held out Akitada’s trousers and robe.

Pushing aside the bedding, Akitada got up, stepped into the wide silk trousers and tied them around his waist and ankles. Then he put his arms into the sleeves of the silk robe he had intended to wear to the ministry, and felt his topknot to make sure it was reasonably tidy.

“Where is the constable?” he asked.

“In the reception room. But he’s a police lieutenant.”

“Hmm.” Barefoot, Akitada padded out of the room.

The lieutenant was young and excessively proper. Dressed in his uniform of white trousers, red coat, and black hat, he was still standing in the middle of the room and came to stiff attention when Akitada entered. His bow was snappy and precise. “Lieutenant Ihara, sir. Is it my honor to address First Secretary Sugawara?”

“Er, yes. Please be at ease, Lieutenant. What is all this about?”

“A female was murdered in the ninth ward. The man arrested at the scene of the crime claims to be your retainer, sir. Name of Tora?”

“I have a retainer by that name. Describe him!”

“Taller than I by a hand’s width. About thirty years old. Small mustache. Pale features. Good teeth. Wearing a plain blue robe with black sash. No other identifying marks that I could see.”

Akitada sighed. No doubt Tora had gone out after some female and got himself into trouble. “It sounds like him,” he admitted. “What happened?”

“The warden of the ninth ward received word that a crime was being committed and sent some constables. They walked in on the murder scene and found this Tora bent over the victim with a knife in his hand. The knife was covered with blood. The constable placed the killer under arrest and sent for us. We were notified two hours ago, and I was dispatched to the crime scene to interview the killer. That was when he gave your name, sir.”

“Did Tora confess to the murder?”

“No, sir. But then few killers will. At least not until they are questioned under torture.”

Akitada shuddered. “In that case,” he said, “you must not call him a killer yet. He is a suspect.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I meant the suspect.”

He did not look as if he thought there was a difference but probably had not made too many arrests that did not produce a guilty plea in court. Akitada thought of Haseo. He must have pleaded guilty once. Had he been tortured, too? His back had been deeply scarred, but he had blamed that on the cruel guards in Sadoshima. A commoner like Tora would hardly be spared.

“Where is Tora now?”

“He has been taken to the Western Prison.”

The Western Prison served the disreputable right half of the capital. It was more crowded than its counterpart, and the crimes punished there tended to be more sordid. Akitada asked, “Who is in charge of the case?”

“I am, sir.”

“Ah. Very good. I want to see the crime scene. Can you take me there?”

The lieutenant looked shocked. “I am very sorry, sir, but that is not permitted. Besides, the body has been removed already.”

“When do you expect the coroner to examine it?”

“Early this morning, I think. Doctor Okubo is very punctual.”

There was an indrawn breath behind him and Akitada turned. Seimei hovered near the door, his face drawn with worry. “What time is it now, Seimei?”

“The hour of the ox is nearly over. We should hear the gong striking the hour of the tiger soon.”

Two, perhaps three hours till dawn. Akitada would not be able to see Tora or the coroner until daylight. He pulled his earlobe and considered.

“Perhaps Tora surprised the real killer,” offered Seimei. “It isn’t like him to do such a thing.” He addressed the police officer. “You see, Lieutenant, Tora would never kill a woman. It isn’t in his nature.”

The lieutenant looked embarrassed. “As you say, sir. In that case, there is nothing to worry about. The authorities will have the truth out of him soon.” To Akitada he said, with another precise bow, “If there is nothing else, sir, I shall take my leave. I only needed verification of the suspect’s identity and to find out if anyone here knows anything about the murder. I see that you had no knowledge of the incident.”

“Wait a moment,” Akitada said quickly. “I must insist on the details of the murder. Also, surely you should ask when Tora left here. For all you know, the crime happened at a time when he was with us.”

The officer flushed. “Sorry. It being the middle of the night, I did not want to make a nuisance of myself. I thought I’d come back in the morning. But if it is no imposition . . .” Pulling a sheaf of paper from his sleeve, he glanced around helplessly for writing utensils.

Akitada took pity on him. “Come,” he said, taking his arm, “we will go to my study.”

His study was in some disarray, with his bedding and some of his clothes still on the floor. Seimei bustled about, muttering nervously under his breath. He lit more candles and brought paper and brushes, inkstones and water containers. For the lieutenant he supplied a small desk and settled him in front of it. Then he busied himself with the bedding and clothes.

“Never mind those, Seimei,” Akitada said impatiently. “The servants can take care of them later.”

Actually there were few servants in the Sugawara household. Akitada customarily put away his own bedding every morning, but the lieutenant would not understand this and might be less respectful if he knew of Akitada’s modest circumstances.

When they were alone, Akitada rubbed some ink and dipped his brush in it. The lieutenant was doing the same. He probably expected to conduct the interrogation himself. Akitada cleared his throat. “You may begin. Tell me about the victim.”