The Dragon Scroll (15 page)

It was not a good beginning, but the chestnuts were tasty and warmed Tora as he looked for a friendly face, someone who might be inclined to chat with a stranger. He made a circuit of the entire market before deciding that Kazusa merchants were a singularly sullen tribe. Still hungry, he bought a bowl of buckwheat noodles.

“You have trouble with monks around here?” he asked the vendor, handing him his coppers.

The vendor ran an unfriendly eye over Tora. “Monks? No. They’re holy men who spend their money freely.” He counted the coins. “Not like some who rob a workingman of his few coppers,” he added, glaring at Tora’s blue robe.

“Hope your wife beats you,” Tora said and strolled off. But the vendor’s manner troubled him and, after a moment’s thought, he stepped behind a stand to adjust his clothing. He pulled the long gown over his sash until it resembled a loose shirt and stuffed his trousers into his boots. The black cap went into his sash, and he loosened his topknot a little. Satisfied that he no longer looked like an official, he returned to his assignment.

When he overheard a fat market woman and her female customer talking about the ex-governor, he moved closer. If he could help solve this puzzling crime, his master would be very pleased with him.

“What’s happened, grandma?” he asked the woman.

“Our old governor died last night,” she said, running bright black eyes over Tora’s tall figure. “A great man. It comes to all of us in the end, high-born or low, governor or beggar. It’s all one. The Buddha himself was a prince, and he became a beggar when he learned about death.”

With a familiar wheezing cough, a cracked voice asked, “But will it work the other way? I’d like to be governor for a change.”

The fat woman snorted. “More likely you’ll be reborn as a mangy dog.”

“Well, then I’ll lift my leg on you, you old turtle head,” cried the Rat, and choked on a paroxysm of wheezing laughter. The old woman gasped and seized one of her long radishes.

The Rat skipped nimbly out of her reach and pulled Tora with him. “Well,” he wheezed, “if it ain’t the gallant hero from the tribunal. How’d you make out with the skirt?”

“Ssh!” Tora looked around to see if they had been overheard. “Come on, you old rascal. I’ll trade you a cup of wine for what you know.”

The Rat’s eyes widened with delight. “I’ll never say no to that. I know a place close by.”

Even using a crutch the Rat moved so quickly that Tora had trouble keeping up. The old faker, he thought, but followed the hopping scarecrow, hoping to gather some prime information.

The Rat maintained his one-legged guise until they reached a tiny wine shop squeezed between two other small businesses. It accommodated only four or five guests at a time and was without customers at the moment. A wooden platform held several large earthen wine jars and a round-faced young woman with a sleeping baby strapped to her back. The Rat perched his skinny rear on a corner of the platform, saying, “Hey, sister. Pour us some of your best. My friend here’s paying.” Then he unstrapped the false stump, laying it next to his crutch, and straightened his leg with a sigh of relief.

“Still at your crooked game, I see,” Tora said with a grin.

The woman set out a flask of wine and two cups. Eyeing Tora, she asked, “What’s a handsome young fellow like you want with a broken-down rascal like this one?” But she gave the Rat an affectionate slap on the back.

Tora poured and told her piously, “It’s for the good of my soul, love! Every month I do penance by wasting my hard-earned cash on some lazy bum. It reminds me what I’ll be if I don’t break my back earning an honest wage.”

She laughed and went back to her seat. The Rat raised his cup. “To your labors!” He wheezed and emptied it.

Tora watched the wine disappear down the stringy, dirt-grained throat and took a cautious sip from his cup. The wine was excellent. The Rat slammed down his empty cup and smacked his lips suggestively. Tora refilled it.

“And to your penance!” said the Rat, sucking down the second serving.

“After looking at you, I won’t need to find another shiftless bum for months.”

“Always at your service,” wheezed the Rat, and went into such gasping convulsions of mirth that Tora had to slap him on his back. “Well? What do you want to know?” the Rat croaked when he found his voice again.

“I’m worried about the girl.”

“Good grief!” cried the Rat. “Don’t you ever think of anything but women?”

“Never mind that. When I stopped by Higekuro’s a little while ago, another pair of baldpates were asking questions of the neighbors, and some old bat pointed out the school to them.”

The Rat held out his cup and Tora refilled it. The Rat drank and held out his cup again. “Stop worrying,” he said. “They’ll be all right.”

Tora felt ill-used. “Look here,” he growled, grabbing the front of the Rat’s filthy shirt to jerk him closer. The ragged garment came apart with a sharp rending sound. He released the beggar quickly when he saw that his bony ribs were covered with an ugly bruise. Someone had given the old man a bad beating.

“Look what you’ve done,” whined the Rat. “I’m naked in this weather!” He shivered. “And me with my weak chest!” He coughed.

“I’m sorry.” Tora dug into his sash and brought out the remnants of a string of coppers, his wages for the coming month. “Here.” He counted out half the money. “Buy yourself a warm robe. That rag didn’t keep your fleas warm.”

The Rat scooped up the money and started hacking again. Deep, harsh coughs racked his bony frame till his face turned blue and tears ran down his face. Tora jumped up in dismay. “Some water, quick! He’s choking,” he shouted to the woman.

“Wine!” croaked the Rat. He coughed and wheezed. “It’s the heat of the wine...” he coughed, “...that eases me.” He wheezed, coughed, and watched the young woman pour his wine. “Bless you, both,” he gasped, “bless you.”

“Him and his fits.” The young woman was unimpressed. She took her baby from its sling and began nursing it.

The Rat drank and Tora refilled his cup, waited, and filled it again. Gradually the cough improved. Eyeing Tora over his cup, the Rat croaked, “You’re a good fellow. Don’t you worry. Girls’ll be fine. Ayako’s a terror. Better leave ‘em be and stay here drinking.” He burped and broke into song in a hideous falsetto. Then he muttered, “Damn all soldiers,” and nodded off.

“Soldiers?” Tora asked. “What soldiers?”

The woman looked up from her nursing child. “They beat him up, I think.”

The Rat mumbled something, curled up on the platform, and began to snore. Tora tossed down some coppers for the wine and left.

It was dark by now, and he thought glumly that he had wasted all of his time and most of his money on two thankless women and a worthless bum without getting anywhere.

In the market, business was still brisk. Lanterns and oil lamps lit the stands and shops, and most shoppers carried their own lights. They cast a shifting, magical glow over the merchandise and customers’ clothes. The food vendors were doing a lively business in the evening. Mingled smells of fried fish, spicy soups, baked dumplings, and roasting chestnuts hung in the air, making Tora hungry again. He had been quaffing wine with the Rat when he should have eaten a wholesome meal. Being an investigator was hard on one’s belly.

When he caught a whiff of his favorite food, fried rice cakes, his mouth watered. He felt for his meager string of coppers and started looking.

The rice-cake vendor was a poorly dressed young man who passed through the crowd selling the tasty morsels from two bamboo containers suspended at the ends of a pole he balanced on one thin shoulder.

Tora quickly overtook him and stepped in his path. “Got you,” he cried, barring the man’s way. “And about time, too.”

The thin fellow stared at him with a frightened expression and started to back away.

Tora grabbed his sleeve. “Not so fast, my friend,” he said, peering into the bamboo containers filled with fat, crispy cakes. “So many! Business must be good.”

“No, no. I hardly sold any. Let me go, please.”

Tora, who really wanted some of the tasty cakes pretty badly by now, tightened his grip. “Not so quick,” he said sternly. “I’m not finished with you. Where are your manners? You clearly don’t know how to treat your patrons.”

The vendor cringed. “Sorry, master,” he muttered. “I didn’t recognize you right away. It was dark last night. Believe me, I’ll pay my dues. You’ve explained the advantages very well. I was going to stop by the Heavenly Abode on my way home.” He reached into his shirt. “See, here it is! Take it! But please tell them that Matahiro paid up.”

Tora was so astonished by this speech that he released the man. He felt a heavy package being pressed into his hand and saw the vendor disappear into the crowd as if he had been sucked into a whirlpool.

The package had the unmistakable feel of metal coins. The vendor had mistaken him for another man. Tora unwrapped the paper. Ten pieces of silver! A lot of money for a poor dumpling man. Perhaps it was a gaming debt.

Tora spent some fruitless time trying to return the silver, but the vendor was gone. Finally he tucked the package into his sash. Another frustrating encounter, he thought grumpily. The memory of the fried cakes lingered, and his stomach felt emptier than ever.

The name the vendor had mentioned, Heavenly Abode, sounded like a restaurant. He would leave the silver there and get a bite to eat at the same time. After the Rat’s inroads on his string of coppers, he hoped it was cheap. He asked a woman for directions. She gave him a funny look but pointed down a dark alley where a dim lantern gleamed.

More like the pit of hell than a heavenly abode, Tora thought, when he fell down the steps after ducking under the torn mat that covered the doorway. Someone laughed. Tora was in a murky cavern of a room stinking of rancid grease and unwashed bodies. A few oil lamps added their own pungent stench and sooty smoke without shedding much light.

When Tora’s watering eyes adjusted, he saw that the room contained a crudely made serving counter and a dirt floor where several men of the poorest class—bare-legged laborers in loincloths and quilted cotton jackets—were eating or getting drunk. They greeted his arrival as a comic entertainment.

Tora got to his feet. The food, he thought, must be cheap and decent, or the place would be empty. Besides, he was more likely to pick up useful information in a low dive than in a respectable business.

The owner, a fat, bald fellow, was leaning on the counter, looking at Tora from under bushy eyebrows.

“Salted vegetables and a pitcher of your best wine, my large friend,” Tora called out to him and took a seat beside one of the other guests. His neighbor lowered his bowl and wiped his mouth with a sleeve. Tora asked, “What’s that you’re eating, brother? Is it good? I’m half-starved.”

The man grinned. “Best bean soup in town, if you can hold it. And if you can’t, run outside. Old Denzo’s stunk up the place enough.” There was a burst of laughter from the others, and old Denzo stood up to demonstrate his powers.

Tora applauded, then became aware of the host’s round belly looming over him.

“Perhaps the gentleman would prefer the food at the Golden Dragon,” the fat man growled. “It’s the big restaurant at the corner of the market.”

“Why?” asked Tora, looking up at him. “If I wanted to eat there, I would’ve gone there. You must be all belly and no brains to tell a paying customer to eat elsewhere. I want some bean soup, and bring my friends here some wine.”

Suddenly he was everybody’s friend. The fat host muttered under his breath and waddled away. Tora hoped the wine would loosen tongues. “Tell me...” he began, when the curtain flapped back and three strangers joined them. They waited for the other men to move away, then sat down next to Tora. The room had fallen silent.

Tora looked them over: an ugly scarred brute, a fat giant, and a short, long-nosed man. He put on a ferocious scowl. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. “Sit someplace else. I was talking to my friends.”