Black Arrow

by I. J. Parker

  Hitomaro’s mouth quirked into a ghost of a smile. “Do not worry so. I am done with life.”

  “What?” With that angry shout, Akitada rose. “Well, then, go to jail, for I cannot save you from that, but do not think that your friends will rest while you submit to trial, sentence, and execution because you are tired of living.” He strode to a clothes chest and threw it open, rummaging until he found his quilted hunting robe, heavy leggings, and an old fur-lined cap. Hitomaro watched without comment as Akitada put those on, snatched his sword from its stand, slung it over his shoulder, and then clapped his hands.

  The constable peered in.

  For so big and strong a man, Hitomaro looked oddly shrunken and helpless, sitting there slumped, his head bowed, and his broad hands resting limply on his knees.

  “Take the lieutenant to the jail and lock him up,” snapped Akitada.

  ♦

  There was the usual crowd of ghouls when Akitada got off his horse in front of the Omeya house. Only Tora and Genba, both grim-faced, accompanied him. In his hurry, Akitada had dispensed with the usual runners, banner bearers, and scribes, but he was recognized nevertheless, and the people parted before him silently.

  Akitada glanced at them, then looked up and down the street, at the neighboring houses, and at the rear garden of the Fox Shrine across the road. When he had an idea of the surroundings, he entered the Omeya house.

  A thin girl with a grotesquely large head and thin, greasy hair twisted into a bun tried to fade into the wall of the hallway leading to the rear of the house. Behind her, steep steps led up to the second floor.

  “You there!” Akitada called to the girl. “Come here!”

  She shook her head violently and turned to scramble up the steps with the agility of a monkey.

  “Get her!” Akitada snapped to Tora and walked into the first room. It was furnished as a reception room and empty. He continued down the corridor, opening doors and closing them again on unoccupied rooms. Upstairs he heard Tora’s pounding footsteps and the squeals of the girl.

  At the end of the corridor a constable suddenly appeared from one of the doors. “Out!” he shouted, waving both hands. “No one is allowed! How many times do I have to tell you bastards ... ?” As Akitada stepped from the shadows, the constable fell abruptly silent and dropped to his knees. Akitada walked around him and into the room the man had come from.

  The murder scene was as Hitomaro had described. Genba, who came in behind him, gasped audibly, then went to feel for a pulse behind the dead woman’s ear. A heavy, sweet smell of blood mingled with an exotic blend of incense. The bloodied gown, which had seemed like crimson satin to Hitomaro, was now a dark rust color, and the puddle the woman lay in had partly congealed and partly soaked into the grass mat.

  Akitada bent to undo the blood-soaked bandages Hitomaro had wrapped around the severed neck. Both neck and chest looked like a single massive wound, but the pale face and glossy black hair were untouched and still achingly beautiful. Akitada stood looking down at the woman he had known as Mrs. Sato, but who had also been Hitomaro’s Ofumi.

  Tora walked in, dragging along the maidservant. “She won’t talk, sir. Doesn’t make a sound. Maybe the shock has addled her brain.” He glanced at the body and whistled. “Merciful Amida! I can see how it would.” He released the girl.

  She scuttled into a corner, where she cowered on her knees and bobbed up and down in silent obeisance.

  Akitada approached her cautiously. “Don’t be frightened, girl,” he said. “Nobody is going to harm you.”

  She bobbed more violently.

  “Stop that!” Akitada ordered, stamping his foot. “Look at me!”

  She became still and raised small, anxious eyes to his face. Her bony, work-reddened hands hovered before her face and then touched her ears.

  “Were you here during the day?” Akitada asked.

  She only looked at him with wide, frightened eyes.

  “Did you see anyone in this house after the midday rice?”

  Still no answer.

  “Were you here when this woman returned? Speak, girl! You won’t be punished.”

  “Sir?” Genba joined him. “I think she’s a deaf-mute. I’ve seen them make that sign with their hands. You know, pointing to their mouth and ears.”

  “Good heavens, what next?” said Akitada in disgust. “A witness who may have seen the killer and can’t speak.”

  “She may read lips. Let me try, sir,” Genba offered and crouched down next to the girl.

  Akitada turned away. The room’s luxury and good taste astonished him. Even the mat on which the body lay was at least two inches thick and woven of the finest grass, its edges bound in purple brocade. He bent to touch its surface. The mat was smooth, soft, and springy and must have cost a great deal. Around it stood curtain rails of painted lacquer draped with robes embroidered in silk and gold threads with a design of cherry blossoms, birds, and pine branches. The brazier, its coals barely glimmering under a thick layer of ashes, was a finely chased bronze replica of a pair of mandarin ducks, symbol of faithful lovers. The four clothing boxes of gold-dusted lacquer, each decorated with symbols of the season—plum blossoms for spring, wisteria for summer, chrysanthemums for autumn, and snow-covered grasses for winter—stood stacked against a wall. He flung them open one by one. Each contained a rich wardrobe of women’s robes for that time of year.

  “She lived pretty well for a whore,” Tora commented.

  “What?” Akitada was still looking about for an object that should have been there but was not.

  “It’s clear where Hito’s money went,” Tora said, pointing at the clothes chests.

  “Not Hitomaro’s money. Someone else’s,” said Akitada. “All of these things are of extraordinary quality and consummate taste. The innkeeper’s widow, though apparently a woman of many talents, did not have the education to select such treasures. Neither would she have found them in this city.”

  Genba scrambled to his feet and joined them. “Sorry,” he said. “The girl’s not just deaf and dumb, but a bit slow. She kept shaking her head when I asked if Ofumi had had any visitors. It seems she found the body when she came to turn down the bedding and she ran to get the constables. When they returned, they found a man, covered with blood, and with a bloodstained sword in his hand, crouching over the dead woman. I think it must’ve been Hito. She believes he was the killer. She kept pointing to the curtain stands. Apparently she thinks that he was hiding behind them when she came the first time.”

  “That is no help at all!” Akitada snapped. He caught a glimpse of the girl’s pale, frightened face as she slunk from the room.

  “If it wasn’t Hito, then who?” asked Tora. “I mean who else would want her dead? The bastard who hanged the Omeya woman in jail so she wouldn’t testify against this one wouldn’t turn around and kill her, too. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Maybe not,” Genba said hotly, “but it wasn’t Hito. I’d bet my life on it. He loved that fox of a woman. And besides, he would never kill a defenseless female.”

  “Hmm,” muttered Akitada. “Genba? When you asked that servant if anyone had come to see Ofumi, did you use the word ‘visitor’?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Look around you. Someone may have called who was not, in the servant’s eyes, a visitor but had a right to be here. Come on, both of you. We are going to Flying Goose village.”

  ♦

  The road to the coast was wide and lined with stands and roadside eateries, among them the shrimp shack where Hitomaro had first tangled with Sunada’s henchman Boshu. The wind carried the tangy smell of the ocean. Now, in this icy weather and at this time of day, the road was deserted. The gusts buffeted them and tossed the horses’ manes and tails. They were thankful when the gray eastern sea came into sight beyond a forlorn cluster of fishermen’s wooden shacks and more substantial warehouses. There were only traces of dirty snow about here, but the sky was an ominous gray and the waves roared and cr
ashed onto the rocky shore. Far out, a fleet of three merchant vessels tossed and bucked on their anchor ropes. All the smaller fishing boats, hundreds of them, lay pulled up on the beach, weighted down with heavy nets and rocks.

  Barely glancing at the whitecapped sea, Akitada rode straight through Flying Goose village toward the only buildings important enough to be Sunada’s residence. The large compound was enclosed by dirt walls and shaded by windswept pines.

  Its main gate was made of heavy beams and boards, studded with big iron nails which had left bloody trails of rust on wood grayed by the wet and salty sea air.

  Tora pulled his sword from the scabbard and delivered a series of resounding knocks with its hilt. “Open up in the name of the governor!” he bellowed.

  The right side of the gate opened soundlessly on well-oiled hinges. An elderly one-legged man on a crutch stared up at them. “What is it?” he croaked in the local dialect. “The master’s resting.”

  “Out of the way!” Tora urged his horse forward and the man twisted aside, grabbing in vain for Tora’s bridle before he fell.

  They galloped past large storehouses, stables, and servants’ quarters to the main residence. There they dismounted, pushed past another gaping servant, this one missing an arm, and into the interior of the house.

  Akitada saw with one glance that the mansion was spacious and built from the finest woods but in the style of well-to-do merchants’ houses. He turned to the servant who had fallen to his knees before him and seemed to be objecting in his heavy dialect.

  “What is he saying?” Akitada growled to Genba, who was more likely than Tora to have picked up the local patois.

  “I think he says that his master’s sick.” Genba sounded dubious and added, “The fishermen hereabout talk differently from the townspeople.”

  “Sick? Ask him if Sunada has been out today?”

  Genba did so, but the man kept shaking his head and repeating the same phrase while wringing his hands.

  Akitada grumbled, “Come on! We’ll find the patient ourselves.”

  The anteroom opened into a large, gloomy reception hall where heavy pillars rose to the high rafters. The tatami mats looked thick and springy, and on the walls paintings on silk— courtiers and ladies moving among willow trees and graceful villas—glimmered in the dim half-light. At the far end, a long dais stretched the entire width of the room. It held only a single red silk cushion in its center.

  Genba muttered, “If this is how a merchant lives, sir, Takata manor cannot be much better.”

  “Not much more impressive anyway,” said Akitada. With a glance at the paintings, he added, “And less richly furnished, I think.”

  “Come on,” cried Tora from a corner behind the dais. “Here’s a door to the private quarters.”

  They entered a smaller room, a sort of study. A lacquered desk with elegant ivory writing utensils stood in the center. Handsomely covered document boxes lined one wall, and doors opened onto a small garden. But this room, too, was quite empty and had the tidiness of disuse: a new ink cake, an empty water container, new brushes, and neat stacks of fine writing paper.

  “Let’s look in those boxes,” said Genba. “I bet that’s where he keeps all his business accounts.”

  “Later!”

  In the dim hall, the servant still hovered near the other end of the dais. When he saw them coming back, he ducked behind one of the pillars and was gone.

  Tora cursed. “Where did that sneaky bastard go? We’d better catch him before he warns Sunada.”

  “After him, Tora,” Akitada said. “Genba and I will check the rooms.”

  They opened door after door on empty room after empty room. The roar of wind and tide was faint here; only the soft hiss of the sliding doors on their well-oiled tracks and the sound of their breathing accompanied them through luxurious, unlived-in spaces. There were more paintings, carved and gilded statues, pristine silk cushions precisely positioned and unmarked by human limbs, lacquered armrests, bronze incense burners without a trace of ash, copper braziers without coals, innumerable fine carvings, and containers of wood, ivory, jade, or gold.

  “It’s like he’s emptied out a treasure house to furnish this place for a bride,” said Genba in one room, looking into brocade-covered boxes of picture scrolls and illustrated books which filled the shelves of one wall.

  They reached the end of the hallway without seeing anyone. Heavy double doors led outside to a broad veranda that extended across the back of the villa and continued along two wings on either side. Below was a large garden. Pines tossed in the wind and large shrubs hid paths leading off in all directions. Roofs of other buildings, large and small, were half-hidden by the trees.

  “Which way now?” asked Genba, looking from side to side. “Should I shout for Tora?”

  “No. Listen! I thought I heard music.”

  But the rhythmic boom of the sea and creaking and rustling of the trees covered all human noise.

  Akitada shook his head. “It must have been the wind. You take the right wing! I’ll go left.”

  “What about the garden?”

  “When you’re done. We’ll meet by that bridge over there.”

  Akitada strode down the gallery, flinging open doors, checking more empty rooms. One of them contained a large painting of three ships at sea, the same ships, unless he was mistaken, as those in the harbor. Some odd-sized document rolls lay stacked on a large chest and he quickly unrolled the top one. It was a map, carefully prepared, of an unidentified shoreline. Strange symbols marked the land, and lines separated provinces and districts. On the water tiny fleets approached harbors. He was about to roll it up again, when he noticed one of the symbols. It was the emblem drawn by Takesuke’s soldier, from the mysterious banner carried by some of Uesugi’s troops. Proof that Sunada was at the heart of the conspiracy.

  Akitada ran down the steps at the corner of the building and joined Genba on the bridge.

  “Well?” he asked, seeing Genba’s face.

  “The whole wing’s one huge room, sir. But I couldn’t get in. It’s locked.”

  “Come,” cried Akitada running ahead. “That must be where he is. Couldn’t you force the door?”—this last in a tone of frustration. Genba was, after all, immensely strong. If he could lift and toss a trained giant from the ring, why could he not break open a mere door?

  The answer became obvious. This was no ordinary door. Its hinged, double-sided panels were made of thick slabs of oiled wood and embossed with bronze plates incised with gilded ornamentation. The locking mechanism was hidden in a bronze plate decorated with the same emblem as on the banners and the maps, only here there was no doubt what it represented: an ear of rice. And now Akitada understood the large warehouses outside. No doubt they held a good part of the province’s rice harvests. The crest was that of a rice merchant. Sunada.

  Akitada listened at the door. Nothing. Inside all was as silent as a grave. He turned away when he heard a cry of pain in the garden. They rushed down the stairs and along a path that led into the shrubberies. At a fork, they separated. Akitada found a rustic garden house, little more than a tiled roof supported by slender wooden columns. A heavy layer of dead vines curtained it. He thought he saw the vines move and flung the brittle tangle aside. Nothing. He turned to leave when someone flung himself on him, knocking him down.

  “Got you, bastard!” snarled Tora, yanking Akitada’s arms back. Akitada shouted at the pain in his shoulder, and the rest was confusion, because Genba arrived next and swung at Tora, knocking him across the narrow space and against one of the pillars. With a crash, the pillar gave and the garden house collapsed.

  They disentangled themselves. Tora rubbed his back. “Sorry, sir. When I saw someone slipping into the garden house, I. . .”

  “And I heard the master cry out,” Genba said, “and thought some scoundrel had got hold of him. This is a very strange place. Where are all of Sunada’s people? There is nobody here but us and two old cripples. Why surround yo
urself with cripples when you’re as rich as Sunada?”

  Akitada massaged his throbbing shoulder. “Sunada is a strange character. I remember he behaved with the utmost humility at Takata, but in the city he swaggered among the merchants and attempted to control my staff. Apparently he lives alone here, in a house which is large and empty—for we have seen neither bedding nor clothes boxes for a family—yet in the city he keeps women and indulges in lavish and luxurious parties. He hires cutthroats to intimidate the little people outside, but employs injured fishermen who can no longer make a living on the sea.”

  “Fishermen?” Genba asked, surprised.

  “The two servants. Both of them are local men by their dialect and both are maimed.”

  “No wonder they wouldn’t help us.”