The Dragon Scroll (16 page)

“We like it here,” said the ugly brute with the scarred face. His open shirt revealed more scars. Knife fights, Tora decided and became intensely aware of being unarmed. The scarred man bared broken teeth as his deep-set black eyes roamed over Tora. His two companions stared silently. The giant had a strangely small shaven head perched on his enormous shoulders. He had the vacuous look of a baby. Slow in the head, thought Tora, and all the more dangerous for that. The third man was middle-aged, with the sharp features and sly eyes of a weasel. All three looked at Tora hungrily.

Courage aside, Tora had enough sense not to tangle with them in this place. Any one of the other customers might join in and knife him in the back. He tried bluster.

“If you’re hard up for company, scum,” he sneered, half rising, “let’s step outside and I’ll make all three of you wish you’d never left your mother’s tits.”

The big oaf reached into his sleeve and pulled out a large knife. He licked his lips. “Can I cut him a little, boss?” he wheedled in a thin voice. The hair bristled on Tora’s scalp.

The scarred man gave the moron a box on the ear without taking his eyes off Tora. The giant whimpered and put his knife away.

“We saw you collect our money from the rice-cake vendor,” Scarface said in a flat voice. “We don’t allow strangers to move into our territory and take what’s rightfully ours.”

So that was it. Protection money. These hoodlums collected money from small merchants with threats of roughing them up or worse. The rice-cake vendor had mistaken Tora for one of their gang and landed him in a bad spot. Even if he turned over the money, they would hardly let him walk away in one piece. His only chance lay in quick and decisive action.

Familiar with the fighting practiced by street gangs, Tora suddenly lashed out with his right arm in a backhanded sweep, letting the knuckles of his balled fist land squarely in the face of the small man. Simultaneously he rose and kicked the scarred man in the stomach. The idiot tried to get up but lost his balance stumbling over his friend. Before he could reason out the incident and reach for his knife again, Tora kicked him in the head. The idiot’s face puckered up like that of a hurt child.

The small man was not moving, but Scarface was up and coming at him with a knife in each hand.

A two-handed knife fighter was the most dangerous. Tora retreated, saw a wooden stool, and grabbed it to ward off the knife thrusts while looking for a weapon of his own. There was nothing, not even a broom handle.

Scarface slashed and Tora dodged, fending off one knife with the stool, then twisting out of reach of the other one. It was an uneven contest he had little hope of winning. He was about to try to make a run for it when someone extended a bamboo pole to him.

Tora snatched it with his free hand and immediately attacked. Scarface cursed when one of his knives skittered across the floor. His right arm hung useless. But he kept coming, his face distorted with pain, his eyes wild, the long puckered scar that ran from his hairline to his nose turning blood-red with his fury. A mad animal.

Tora dropped the stool and concentrated on working the pole. He almost enjoyed himself. The scarred man suffered a hard hit on the skull and another vicious jab in the stomach before the pole deprived him of his remaining knife, then pinned him against the wall by the neck.

Noisy applause broke out. Tora, breathing hard, adjusted the end of the pole firmly on his opponent’s windpipe and looked around. What he saw almost caused him to drop his weapon.

The giant was stretched out on the floor. On his back sat a burly man with thick gray hair and beard surrounding a deeply tanned face. His eyes twinkled gleefully at Tora, and the grin showed a gap in his front teeth.

“Hito!” gasped Tora. “What the devil are you doing here?”

The other man gave a laugh. “Glad I found you in time, little brother. I was passing and thought I heard your voice.”

The scarred man began to gasp and choke and his face turned purple. Tora eased the pressure on the pole a little. “Go get some rope,” he told the host, who was wringing his hands and goggling at the scene.

Hidesato asked, “What will you do with them?”

Tora considered. “Turn them over to the constables?”

There was a collective gasp from the patrons. A few men began to inch toward the door. The host, coming back with an armful of rope, cried, “Not the constables! We’ll take care of them ourselves.”

Their disposition could wait, but they made secure bundles of the three before Tora and Hidesato sat down together to drink to their unexpected reunion.

“You’ve been well?” Tora asked, looking at the gray in Hidesato’s hair and beard.

The other man grimaced. “Left the army a month after you did. Been knocking about since then, hiring myself out to people with more money than fighting skill.”

Their fat host became obsequious, bringing a large pitcher of wine, two bowls of soup, and a platter of rice and vegetables. “On the house,” he said with an ingratiating smile.

“Much obliged,” said Tora, raising his cup to Hidesato. “Welcome, older brother!” he said. “It warms my heart to see you. Wait till you hear what’s happened to me.”

Hidesato took a sip of his soup and nodded at Tora’s clothes. “You look very respectable.”

“More than respectable. I’m special assistant to ...” He leaned across and whispered in Hidesato’s ear.

Hidesato stared, then raised his cup and said dryly, “I congratulate you.” Turning to the host, he said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but we got the feeling you don’t like those men over there any better than we do.”

“Those bastards?” The host spat in the direction of their prisoners. “Been paying the weasel and his idiot for years, and a small fortune since the ugly devil joined them. Most of my customers get knocked about every time they show up. I’d like to see them flayed alive, but we don’t care much for constables here.”

“They’ve been extorting money from the market vendors,” Tora said.

Hidesato raised his brows. “You don’t say. A gang.”

“Tax collectors,” shouted the comedian in the group. “Taking from the poor just like those cursed dogs the governor sends around.”

All eyes turned to Tora and an embarrassed silence fell.

Hidesato grinned.

Tora inwardly cursed his blue robe. “I’m just a visitor,” he said, “and I work for wages like you do. But if we let those three bastards go, they’ll be back and take it out on you.”

The host paled. “He’s right. Let’s kill them,” he decided.

“That’ll bring the constables for sure,” Tora pointed out.

The host waddled behind the counter and brought out a heavy earthen jar. Delving into its clinking depth, he took out ten silver pieces. “Here,” he said, counting out five each for Tora and Hidesato. “That’s for you if you get rid of them.”

“No,” said Tora, pushing the silver back.

“C’mon! A quick slash with a knife and it’s done. And we’ll help you carry the bodies to Squatters’ Field later. They always find bodies there. Nobody’ll know the difference, and you’ll be long gone before there’s any trouble.”

“No. We’re not hired assassins,” snapped Tora.

Hidesato gave him a long look, then got up to peer at the three ruffians. “You know their names?” he asked the host.

The host spat again. “Scum. The big monster’s Yushi. A guy I know watched him disembowel a puppy. Yushi used to work for the thin geezer, Jubei. Jubei was a pimp for the soldiers till they found out he trained his girls to roll their customers. They beat him up and told him to stay out of that business. That’s when he got into the extortion racket around the market. Then, a couple of weeks ago, the ugly guy showed up. We call him Scarface. Nobody knows his name.”

“They should be in jail,” said Tora stubbornly.

“Suppose,” said Hidesato, “my very official-looking friend here tells the constables they attacked him, which is no more than the truth. You all say that you’re not sure what happened exactly. The constables take them away and lock them up till the next court session. If no one appears against them, the magistrate will let them go, but they’ll leave you alone from then on, for fear that you’ll testify against them. They may even move to another province.”

This was considered and met with approval. The constables arrived, listened to Tora’s story, and departed with their prisoners.

Tora breathed a sigh of relief. He was going to invite Hidesato to his quarters for the night so that they could talk over old times, but when he looked around for him, his friend was gone. Without so much as a good-bye.

* * * *

EIGHT

THE WIDOW

kitada, neatly robed and wearing his official hat, knocked for the second time that day on the gate of the Tachibana mansion. By now the news had spread and he had an audience of a gaggle of curious idlers. This time the response was prompt and he was admitted by Junjiro, who was dressed in the hempen robe appropriate for servants in mourning for their master but also wore an expression of cheerful importance. When he saw Akitada, he straightened his back, folded his arms across his chest, and bowed deeply from the waist. In a high, penetrating voice, he sang out, “Welcome. This poor hovel is greatly honored by Your Highness’s condescension.”

This provoked a burst of laughter from the people in the street. Akitada stepped in quickly. “Ssh!” he said. “Close the gate.”

Junjiro obeyed. “It is not the right thing to say?”

“No. Only your master and mistress can refer to their home in those terms. And if you must use an honorific, er, a title for me, you may call me ‘Excellency.’“

“I am grateful for your instruction, Your Excellency,” said Junjiro, then spoiled the effect by adding with a broad grin, “You missed all the fun. All those baldpates chanting and hopping about on their bare feet, the servants squalling, pulling their hair, and looking like sacks of beans in these hemp gowns”—he held out his robe and grimaced—”and outside the gate everybody’s trying to see what’s going on. Just like a
bon
festival.”

“Aren’t you grieving for your master?” asked Akitada, astonished at such callousness.

“Time enough to grieve when the mistress throws us out,” said the boy. “I like to eat.”

Akitada opened his mouth but thought better of it. “Take me to her,” he demanded instead.

“She’s in there with the corpse and the monks,” Junjiro informed him crudely, pointing to the main building.

Muffled sounds of Buddhist chanting came from inside. On the veranda, Junjiro helped Akitada remove his wooden clogs and then opened the door.

The odor of incense overwhelmed Akitada. Chanting flowed back and forth across the dusky space, seemingly drawn, like a tide, by the periodic tinkling of small brass bells at opposite ends of the room: the waves of sound swelled and pulsated with the rhythmic throbbing of drumbeats. He could barely discern shapes in the thick fog of incense. It hung low over the seated figures of yellow-robed monks, the pale hempen gowns of kneeling servants, and the darker, more formal robes of visitors, all of them faceless with their backs toward Akitada, all of them motionless in respect to the dead. Wisps of incense floated about standing candles and outlined each flame in a glowing nimbus of smoke and light.