The Dragon Scroll (5 page)

Around the hour of the evening rice, they returned to the inn and sat at one of the tables outside. Seimei joined them, and they ordered a simple meal from a stout, middle-aged waitress with a pronounced overbite. Tora took one look at her, grimaced, and watched the shoppers instead.

“I could swear that tall fellow lost his ear in a tangle with a chain and ball,” he said, nodding toward a group of young Buddhist monks passing the inn.

Akitada followed his glance and saw what Tora meant. The chain and ball was a vicious weapon used by violent gangs. This monk shared only the saffron robe and shaven head with the pasty-faced and soft-bodied clerics Akitada had met in the capital. Tall, ruddy, and very muscular, he walked with a swagger and had the face of a cutthroat. And Akitada saw with surprise that his companions were like him. They passed through the crowds almost disdainfully, speaking to no one, their eyes roaming everywhere. People scurried out of their way.

“Hmm,” said Akitada. “Odd. If he has had a checkered past, let us hope he has seen the error of his ways and chosen to atone.”

Seimei, being a good Confucianist like his master, also distrusted the Buddhist religion. He looked after the monks and shook his head. “You cannot make a crow white even if you wash it for a year.”

The waitress, who was serving their food and wine, burst into loud giggles and poked him with her elbow. Seimei glared at her.

“You used to say the same about me, old man,” Tora reminded Seimei.

“Exactly. And look at him now!” Akitada smiled at Tora with great satisfaction. They had done some shopping. The ragged tramp was wearing a new blue cotton robe with a black sash. His long hair was pulled back neatly into a topknot tied with a black cord, and his face clean shaven except for a small mustache. The scar had faded, and Tora attracted admiring glances from passing young women.

“I may have been wrong about you,” Seimei conceded. He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “We shall see. But remember, Master Kung Fu says that a man should be distressed by his own lack of ability, not by the failure of others to recognize his merits.”

Tora reached for his bowl of rice and vegetables. “A very good saying, that,” he said, nodding. “You must teach me more about your Master Kung Fu.”

Seimei looked pleased. Akitada hoped that the old man was beginning to take a fatherly interest in Tora; it would be a welcome distraction if he found someone else to scold and instruct.

They ate and drank contentedly, watching the bustling crowd in the market.

“This looks like a healthy and prosperous province,” remarked Seimei to Akitada, echoing Akitada’s earlier thoughts. “The rice paddies and mulberry plantations we passed on the way here are well kept, and this market is selling an abundance of goods.”

“Yes.” Akitada had seen no signs of neglect or grinding poverty among the peasants. He knew that a dishonest administration satisfied its greed by excessive taxation and minimal maintenance of roads and fortifications.

“Something’s not right here,” Tora said. “I’ve a feeling about such things. Those bastard officials wouldn’t have to rob the peasants if they kept all the taxes for themselves. The governor’s palace has green roof tiles and gilded dragon spouts like a temple. Where did he get the money for that?”

“Well,” said Akitada, shaking his head doubtfully, “I find it hard to associate wholesale thievery of taxes with an otherwise excellent administration.”

Tora suddenly whistled.

“What’s the matter?” Seimei asked, raising his eyes from peering into the empty wine pitcher.

Tora pointed. “Look at that girl! She’s a beauty. What a neck! And those hips and thighs!”

Across from the inn, a vegetable vendor had set up his baskets of turnips, radishes, beans, herbs, sweet potatoes, and chestnuts. A pretty young girl, her hair tied up in the style of women of the lower class, and her slender figure wrapped tightly in a plain striped cotton gown, was bargaining with many gestures for a bunch of large radishes.

“Don’t stare, Tora,” Seimei scolded. “Women should neither be seen nor heard.” He called for their waitress. She arrived eagerly to take his order for more wine and pickles. “And don’t try to charge us for those pickles this time,” he told the woman. “They come with the wine.” She bobbed her head, grinned at him toothily, and padded away. He scowled after her and muttered, “Women can’t be trusted. Charging for pickles and pocketing the money herself, I bet.” Turning back to Tora, he said, “Mark my words and stay away from females. A young man in your position must keep his mind pure or he will be ruined by some flirtatious light-skirt.”

Too late. Tora, a look of determination on his face, jumped up and disappeared in a passing group of shoppers.

There seemed to be some kind of commotion. People turned their heads to stare. But when the crowd thinned, there was no trace of either Tora or the girl.

“Well!” exploded Seimei. “Did you see that? Outrageous! He jumped up without a word to run after the first skirt that appeals to him. What shall we do now?”

“Nothing. Here’s the waitress, Seimei. Let’s drink our wine and eat these excellent free pickles. If Tora has not returned by the time we are done, we’ll retire. You can lecture him about his behavior tomorrow.”

“Hah! Trying to talk to that one is like taking the whip to the bullock’s horns.”

They were idly watching people again, when a peddler approached some guests at the other end of the porch. He was the first poor man they had seen in the city.

Ancient, bent, and skeletal, he was barely able to support the tray of merchandise strapped around his birdlike neck and shoulders. As he hobbled among the guests, he kept propping the tray up on tables every chance he got. Through the holes and tatters of his shirt patches of leathery skin could be seen, and he was bare-legged to his loincloth.

The guests were mostly merchants eating their rice. They made threatening noises and gestures at the peddler. But he persisted, either hard of hearing or desperate to make a sale, until one of the men became impatient and delivered a vicious kick to the peddler’s backside. The old man fell face forward into the street, across his tray of knickknacks, which scattered in the mud. The merchants laughed uproariously, and some street urchins darted forward to scoop up what they could carry.

Akitada was by the side of the fallen peddler in a moment, scattering the boys. Helping the old man up, he led him to their bench. “I am sorry for the treatment you got, old man,” he told him. “Here, have some wine. It will warm you and give you some strength.”

The old peddler shivered and moaned, but the wine produced results, and his whimper turned into intelligible words. It appeared he was a great deal more concerned about his loss of merchandise than his injuries.

Akitada looked at him and marveled at a life where the threat of starvation was far more serious than bruises or broken bones. “Seimei,” he said, “go see if you can find any of his things and bring them over here.”

Seimei, his face a study in outrage, returned with the tray of muddied objects and placed it on the table next to the peddler. Taking a sheet of paper from his sash, he tore it carefully in half, wiped his hands thoroughly, and tucked away the rest.

The peddler, seeing the few grimy remnants of his stock-in-trade, uttered a string of shrill wails. Akitada rashly offered to buy what was left and the old man stopped his noise immediately. He quoted an exorbitant price, which Akitada paid. Without a word of thanks the peddler dumped the contents of the tray on the table, flung its rope around his neck, and disappeared into the crowd at a lively pace.

“Oh, the vile person was pretending all the time,” cried Seimei. “What are we to do with this filthy junk?” He poked at the cheap combs and pins with his chopstick. “It isn’t worth two coppers and you gave him twenty. And it’s all women’s stuff anyway. And dirty. No doubt we will both become ill from touching the creature and his trash.”

“You might make our waitress a gift of them,” suggested Akitada. “She seems to be particularly taken with you.”

Seimei’s jaw sagged until he saw Akitada’s grin. He prepared to sweep everything onto the empty pickle tray when Akitada reached out and plucked one small piece from the pile and cleaned it off carefully. “If I am not mistaken,” he said, “this is Chinese cloisonné work, a very strange sort of thing to find in a peddler’s tray. Look, Seimei, it’s a morning glory, and beautifully made, each blue petal and green leaf outlined with gold wire. I wonder how that old man got an exquisite thing like this.” He scanned the crowd for a glimpse of the peddler.

Seimei peered at the tiny flower. “It’s very small. Is it worth twenty coppers?”

“Not in its present condition. Once it was part of a hair ornament, and worth a hundred times that. But few women, even of the noblest houses, wear jewelry nowadays. It’s a puzzle.” Akitada frowned in concentration, then shook his head. “Perhaps it came from a temple robbery. Ancient statues of goddesses often have such ornaments. I shall keep it as a souvenir. Leave the other things for the waitress and let’s go to bed.”

♦

Tora had not returned by the following morning. Akitada was torn between disappointment that Tora should have left so quickly when he no longer needed protection, and fear that he had got himself into some new trouble. But either way, there was nothing he could do until he had met with the governor.

When Seimei found his master dressed in his usual hunting robe and clean cotton trousers tucked into boots, he objected, insisting that Akitada put on formal court attire for the occasion. Akitada controlled his temper because of Seimei’s recent illness. He sat, quietly fuming, while Seimei unpacked and aired out his one good silk robe, white silk court trousers, and the formal hat of stiffened black gauze, accompanying his ministrations with bitter recriminations about Tora. Putting on the awkward costume did little to improve Akitada’s mood, already tense in anticipation of the coming interview.

The walled compound that housed the provincial government dwarfed the adjoining district administration. Akitada and Seimei passed through a roofed gate supported by red-lacquered pillars. The two trim soldiers, standing stiffly on guard, their halberds pointing skyward, did not prevent their entry but eyed them curiously.

Inside stretched a large courtyard covered with gravel and bisected by a paved walk, about fifty yards long and leading straight to the steps of the main hall. Behind its tall, tiled roof they could see more roofs, some thatched and some tiled, no doubt offices, quarters for the governor’s personal guard, prison, archives, storehouses, and the governor’s private residence and guest quarters.

The reason for the complacent behavior of the two gate guards became apparent. A whole company of guardsmen was drilling, and an official in the sober dark robe of a clerk detached himself from a small group of watchers and came toward them.

“May I direct you?” he asked, bowing deeply because Akitada’s silk robe and stiffened black cap marked him as a person of rank.

“I am Sugawara Akitada, the inspector, just arrived from the imperial capital,” Akitada told him, suddenly glad that he had submitted to Seimei’s demands. “You may take me to the governor.”

The other man started, then paled and fell to his knees, bowing his head to the ground. “This insignificant person is the governor’s secretary, Akinobu. Your Excellency is expected, but we thought... That is, the forerunner of an official cortege usually arrives well ahead of the dignitary. A thousand pardons for not being prepared to receive Your Excellency with the appropriate honors. I hope Your Excellency had no trouble on the journey?”

Akitada noted the man’s nervousness and took secret satisfaction from their unorthodox arrival. He said breezily, “None at all. I traveled on horseback, accompanied by my secretary, Seimei, and one servant who will arrive later. Please rise.”

Akinobu rose, his thin face a study of alarm and puzzlement, but he said nothing, merely bowed and led them through the main administration hall, a large empty space with beautifully polished dark floors and painted beams supporting the soaring roof. This building, Akitada knew, was for official receptions and public hearings. Beyond the main hall they crossed another wide courtyard and entered a second, somewhat smaller hall, this one divided by tall screens into individual offices, where many clerks were busily copying records, filing documents, and consulting registers.