by I. J. Parker
But Saburo did not trust a blind man to touch his head and stopped. “No, wait. I don’t need any help. I feel fine.”
The old man ignored him and shouted, “Hey, there, Bashan. Got a patient for you. He’s had a bad knock on his head. Get your fingers out of Goto’s mouth and take a look at him.” He chortled at the expression. Seeing Saburo’s reaction, he added, “Got magic in those fingers. Don’t you worry.”
The masseur had turned his face in their direction. His eyes were half closed, and he leaned his head sideways as if to hear better. He called out, “Is that you, Eino? I’m done.” He held up a bloody tooth and made Saburo gag again. “Bring him over here.”
His patient rose with a wide grin of relief, the gaps in his teeth proving he had lost teeth before and probably more painfully.
The old man seized Saburo by the sleeve and drew him forward.
“Really, I’m fine,” said Saburo, hanging back. “Thanks, Bashan, but I don’t need any treatment. Besides I’ve got no money.”
Bashan laughed. It was a nice laugh, full-throated and pleasant. Tora saw that the blind masseur was tall and would have been handsome if not for his disability. “Nobody has any money here, friend. Sit down and let me touch your face.”
Saburo recoiled. “No!”
Bashan cocked his head. “What’s wrong?”
The old beggar explained, “He’s got those ugly scars on his face. He says someone tortured him. It’s really the back of his head needs looking at.” To Saburo, he repeated, “Don’t you worry! Bashan’s very gentle.”
With an inward sigh, Saburo sat down across from the masseur. Bashan washed his hands in a basin and dried them on a cloth attached to his belt. Then he traced Saburo’s scars with his fingers. Their touch was cool from the water and soft and very quick. “I see,” he murmured. “Did you tell them what they wanted to know?”
“Yes,” Saburo said, angry at the man and at himself. “You would’ve done the same.”
“I believe you. Now lean down so I can check your head.”
Again Bashan’s touch was feather light. Saburo felt only a couple of brief twinges.
“You’ll do,” pronounced the masseur. “If you permit, I’ll wash your hair to keep the wound clean and prevent you frightening people. There’s a lot of blood.”
“You’re very kind, but I don’t want to trouble you.”
“No trouble. I pride myself on the way I wash hair.” Bashan chuckled.
Saburo murmured, “Thank you,” and submitted.
Apart from the faint burning when the water and Bashan’s fingers came too close to his broken scalp, the experience was pleasant, and when it was over, Saburo felt a good deal better.
“Do you wear your hair in a knot?” asked the masseur.
“Yes, but I didn’t tonight. I suppose the knot might have softened the blow.”
Bashan smiled. “Perhaps, but I don’t think your enemy meant to kill you.”
“I don’t feel particularly grateful at the moment,” Saburo said sourly. “I’ve worked out that I’m in the temple of the beggars. When I first came to, there was this weird old fellow in women’s clothes sitting beside me. He called me by my name and said he was Kenko. It was … well, disconcerting. How did he know my name?”
Bashan’s eyebrows rose. “A warning, friend. The Venerable Kenko is the chief of the beggars and the temple priest. The people here love and obey him. As for how he knew your name: Kenko knows just about everything. My guess is someone recognized you and told him.”
Saburo thought about this. It was possible. His face was not easily forgotten, and beggars were everywhere. He also thought about the priest. Aside from Bashan, the beggars so far had not impressed him. A priest dressed in a woman’s red silk gown perhaps least of all. But he knew he had almost made a bad mistake.
“Thanks for your help,” he told Bashan. “I owe you. I’m not one of them, so I can pay, only I don’t have any money on me. I’ll come back. Will I find you here?”
“Only when they need me,” Bashan said, packing his tools into his case. “And you owe me nothing. But be careful, Saburo. Next time you may not be so lucky.” He got to his feet, slung the box over his shoulder and chest, attached the basin to it, and took up a long staff leaning against the well coping. Giving Tora a nod, he walked away, tapping the ground before him.
Saburo cast another look around. The beggars had melted away, and he was alone. Never mind. He would return when he felt a bit better. It had struck him that beggars made the perfect spies, being everywhere and ignored by all.
The Grieving Father
Akitada pondered the character of the prince’s wife all the way to the Minamoto residence. He wished he could speak to this powerful woman, but his interview with the prince had not gone well, and he had no way of approaching Lady Kishi.
She would not in any case welcome such a call, even if the problems of visiting another man’s wife could be overcome. Lady Kishi was in a peculiar position. As Prince Atsuhira’s wife, she was most likely deeply offended by her husband’s affair with one of the emperor’s ladies, yet, her fate was tied to her husband’s, and he clearly was in serious political trouble. Would she have been angry enough to punish him by accusing him of treasonable plotting? It did not seem likely, but perhaps she had acted thoughtlessly in her jealousy and now regretted having taken her vengeance.
Then there was the murder of Lady Masako. Could Lady Kishi have ordered it? The charge of treason did not appear to be related to the murder of his lover, but Akitada did not like the coincidence.
Yes, Lady Kishi was a fascinating character and certainly a suspect in the murder at least.
Minamoto Masaie’s house was within a block of the western wall of the Greater Palace enclosure. Many of the provincial lords maintained town residences to conduct business in the capital. Masaie’s was a comfortable size and well maintained behind its plaster walls and roofed double gate.
Armed soldiers guarded this gate and were more peremptory than at the prince’s palace, but these were Masaie’s own retainers.
“I come from the Ministry of Justice and have business with your master,” Akitada told them.
The senior man merely shook his head.
Akitada was searching his mind for something that might gain him access when he looked past the warrior and saw a familiar short, round figure inside the compound. His friend Kosehira was coming toward the gate.
He looked glum, but his round face broke into a smile when he saw Akitada. “I’m so glad to see you,” he cried. “What are you doing here?”
Akitada glanced at the guard. “I wanted to pay my respects to Masaie, but I don’t seem to be welcome. And you?”
“Paying my mother’s respects,” said Kosehira with a grimace. “Come, I’ll introduce you.” To the soldier, he said, “He’s all right. I know him.” And with that he drew Akitada into the compound.
They did not try to stop them. Kosehira’s position apparently vouched for both of them.
Still it rankled a little. “Would you mind telling me,” Akitada asked, “how you manage to gain access while I, a representative of a ministry, am denied?”
“Oh, it’s the same old story. It’s not whom you represent but whom you know. Don’t forget the regent is my cousin.”
Akitada shook his head. They passed into an inner courtyard and walked along an open gallery to a side wing of the main house. Here a servant saw them and ran to tell his master.
Minamoto Masaie was talking to a tall young man as they walked in. Apparently, they had interrupted an argument because both looked thunderous at the interruption.
Masaie glared at the servant, who muttered an apology and ran. “Back again already?” the Minamoto lord said to Kosehira. “What do you want now?”
Not a promising beginning.
And very rude, considering Kosehira’s status.
The young man bore a resemblance to Masaie. They were both large with round heads and big limbs. Both
wore beards. And both were red-faced with anger. Akitada guessed they were father and son.
Before Kosehira could speak, the son decided to add his own insults, perhaps to deflect his father’s anger from himself and curry favor with him. “You lack manners, sir,” he snapped at Kosehira. ‘How dare you have the gall to trouble my father at such a time? He just lost his daughter. Where is your respect?”
Masaie growled, “Quiet, Masanaga. You may leave us.”
The son closed his mouth and glared.
Kosehira didn’t bat an eyelid. He smiled at the young man. “Sorry, Masanaga. Didn’t know you were with your father.”
Masanaga did not acknowledge the apology and walked out.
Kosehira looked after him, then turned to Masaie. “Here’s some luck, Masaie,” he said. “I was just leaving when I ran into Akitada coming in. Sugawara Akitada. I expect you’ve heard of him?”
Masaie gave Akitada an unfriendly stare. “He’s a troublemaker in the Ministry of Justice.”
Akitada opened his mouth to protest, but Kosehira said quickly, “Exactly, and that makes him the very man to help you out of your predicament.”
The unfriendly stare was practically frigid now. “I told you there’s no trouble, and I’ll thank you not to discuss my affairs with everybody you meet on the street.”
Akitada cleared his throat, but Kosehira was undisturbed. “Come, let’s all sit down,” he said, pulling Akitada to one of the cushions near the open doors.
Outside was a small veranda and, as at the prince’s house, a cherry tree. Only this one was in a tub and just coming into bloom. Akitada could not help wondering why such a very irate person would arrange for this small tree. And for the sparrows that scratched around in the gravel as if they expected to be fed. But such puzzles were pointless. Masaie normally resided at his country seat. Some servant must have brought the tree here, hoping to please his ill-tempered master.
Masaie did not sit. “You may both leave, Kosehira,” he said coldly. “I’ve said all I’m going to say. I will not help that despicable traitor.”
He meant Prince Atsuhira. His anger was understandable. But would he condone the murder of a beloved daughter?
Neither Kosehira nor Akitada sat down. Akitada now said, “Allow me to express my condolences, Lord Masaie. I, too, have lost a child and know the grief.”
Masaie turned his face toward him. The light caught his features, and now Akitada saw the deep lines of his face. His heart went out to the man. But Masaie surprised him again.
“My daughter was a slut who shamed me and my house,” he snapped. “I welcomed her death. If she killed herself, she only did as she should. If someone did it to her, then let him come to me, and I’ll pay him in gold.”
At this even Kosehira gasped. “Masaie,” he cried, “you should be ashamed. You don’t mean that. You cannot mean it. Please consider—”
Masaie took a threatening step toward him. “Out!” he roared.
They left.
Outside, in the open air, Kosehira stopped and took a deep breath. He glanced back at the house. “Whew,” he said, “that was about as unpleasant as anything I’ve ever experienced.”
Akitada saw Masaie’s son, now armed with a sword, approaching from the direction of the gate. He said, “You may be speaking too soon.”
Minamoto Masanaga was taking big steps, even for such a tall man. He crossed the wide courtyard in no time at all and came to a halt before them. His eyes were fixed on Akitada.
“You!” he said, his manner threatening. “You dare to threaten my family. I know what you’re about, you infernal busybody. You’re in the plot with the rest of them, and you’re trying to pin something on us. You will not succeed. I’ll see to that.” He took a step closer, putting his hand on his sword and leaning into Akitada’s face. “I’ll see you dead, you and your family, for your insolence. Our people have orders to cut you down.”
With that, he flung past them and stalked back to the house. Akitada wiped a trace of spittle from his face. He felt murderous.
“Hmm,” said Kosehira. “He doesn’t like you, I’m afraid.”
“No. He’s afraid. And this little temper tantrum has just proved that he and his father have something to hide.”
Kosehira shook his head. “Well, I don’t see what we can do about it.” He looked at the gate, which was now manned by ten armed Minamoto soldiers, all with their hands on their swords. “Ouch! You don’t suppose they’ll cut us down on our way out, do you? These provincial lords don’t pay much attention to the law.”
Akitada was already walking. “Come, we’ll test it,” he said grimly.
They set their faces and strode forward.
The armed men waited until the last moment, then parted ranks and let them pass. Nobody said a word.
Akitada and Kosehira did not speak until they turned the corner; then Kosehira stopped. “Heavens! That was close.” He clenched his shaking hands. “What do you suppose would have happened if they had cut us down?”
“Do you care what happens after you’re dead? It was very unlikely. I grant you Masaie, and especially his son, were upset, but we’re in the capital, after all. Perhaps they might get away with it in their own fiefdom, but not here. They would have been arrested, tried, and sent into exile.”
Kosehira looked at him. “How can you be so sure? Sometimes you’re incredibly naïve, my dear Akitada, You’re still under the impression that justice will be done somehow. Don’t forget, in this case you would be no more. Who would stand up for the victims then?”
Akitada knew Kosehira had a point. The slaughter of two ranking noblemen by the retainers of another would raise eyebrows and perhaps even an outcry, but if political expediency prevailed, Masaie would be briefly exiled and then recalled. It had happened too often in the past.
Kosehira peered up at the sun. “Oh well, time for the midday rice, if you still have an appetite for it. Come to my house and let’s discuss the case over food.”
Akitada accepted. He was hungry, and Kosehira provided elegant repasts and could be trusted to come up with something tasty even when reduced to a skeleton staff.
He was not disappointed. Kosehira had travelled to the capital with his cook, having decided the other services could be performed by the servants left behind to look after his town residence while he served as governor in his province.
They settled down in a pleasant room overlooking a garden with meandering streams, small bridges, pines, and willows in fresh pale leaves. An elderly servant brought some very good wine and bowls of nuts and pickled plums. His manner expressed devotion and concern for his master.
Savoring the wine after the unpleasantness—in retrospect it seemed no more—at the Minamoto house, Akitada decided to find out how things stood with Kosehira. “Do I take it your close connection to the regent has changed your own situation for the better?”
Kosehira grimaced. “Not at all. I had a very uncomfortable meeting with His Excellency and came away cursing such relationships. It’s not enough that I must bear the burden of the unpopularity of my powerful Fujiwara relatives, but they seem to think I owe them something. Kinsue reprimanded me for my correspondence with the prince and warned me they would not protect me if I was found to be involved in the plot.”
“I asked because you seem to be free to go wherever you wish.”
Kosehira refilled their cups and passed the nuts. “Well, at least I’m not under house arrest.”
Akitada ate some nuts and sipped his wine. “Do you think it’s wise to be seen supporting the prince the way you have been doing? Should you not return to your province and wait out the storm?”
Kosehira shook his head. “I’m angry, Akitada. I will not be treated this way. And I will not abandon a friend.” He looked and sounded quite fierce.
It was not an expression Akitada had ever seen on his friend’s cheerful round face. Neither had Kosehira ever expressed anything but happy emotions. Kosehira’s joyful optimism had a
lways been a great pleasure to the frequently troubled and uncertain Akitada. Now it occurred to him for the first time that he might lose him. Political alliances could be very dangerous.
The same servant returned in the company of a young serving girl, both carrying small trays and dishes. Placing a tray before each, they served Akitada and their master with bowls of a clear soup containing bits of vegetables. The soup was delicious.
When they were alone again, Akitada said, “I haven’t made any progress, I’m afraid. What just happened at Masaie’s is exactly the same thing that has happened everywhere else I tried to get information. Even Kobe had nothing new. He objects to our meddling and thinks you’ve behaved very improperly in the matter of Lady Masako’s death.”
“I had no choice. I couldn’t refuse my help to the prince. I think Atsuhira blames me for having kept him that night.” Kosehira put down his bowl. He had sipped less than half of it.
Akitada did not mention that the prince had, in fact, cursed him. It would merely add to his friend’s guilt and worry, and the prince had spoken out of grief. He said, “In any case, Atsuhira will do nothing to help us. He speaks of forsaking the world. If he’s prevented, he says, he’ll kill himself.”
Kosehira nodded, looking glum.
Akitada finished his soup. “What do you make of Masaie’s behavior? And that of his son?”
“Young hothead,” muttered Kosehira. “Masaie surprised me. How can a father hate his own child? It’s unnatural. I was shocked. These provincial lords are rough and violent men, but I never knew they did not care for their own children.”
“Perhaps it was just show. To prove he has reason to hate Prince Atsuhira and cannot therefore be one of his supporters. I don’t know the man at all, so I have no idea if it’s true.”
Kosehira looked thoughtful. “It may be so. He was clearly hoping to make the emperor his son-in-law. You can see how Lady Masako’s willfulness destroyed his dream. Of course, it may also be that he switched allegiance once he realized she had chosen Atsuhira instead.”
This had been Akitada’s thought also, so he nodded.
