by I. J. Parker
‘What did he take?’
‘Anything he wanted. Land, money, women.’ ‘Women? He chased women?’ The man rolled his eyes.
Tora finished his dumpling and wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘All real men chase women. What did he do? Rape a nun?’
But the dumpling man shook his head. Perhaps he thought he had said too much already. ‘There’s talk,’ he said vaguely. ‘Don’t quote me.’
Tora changed the subject. ‘Were you here the day he was killed?’
The man looked at him a moment. ‘You want another dumpling while you’re wasting my time?’
Tora laughed at this – the dumpling man had not had any other customer and nobody had stopped at his stand – but he shelled out another copper. ‘Well?’ he asked, biting into the dumpling.
‘I was here.’
‘So maybe you saw the fellow that did everyone such a big favor. Anybody in particular?’
The man gestured at the street. ‘People come and go here all the time. How should I know what their business is?’
That might be true, but having been conned out of another copper, Tora was not giving up so easily. ‘Come, you’re a man of experience, a man who thinks. I bet you noticed something out of the ordinary.’
‘Nothing to do with the murder.’
‘Ah! Something did happen. Let’s hear it.’ Tora swallowed the last of the dumpling and adjusted his sash, causing his string of coppers to clink.
‘Well,’ the dumpling man said, eyeing the sash, ‘not that it means anything, I’m sure, but the young lord rode down the fan seller.’
‘Rode down the fan seller?’ Tora glanced at the old woman in the distance. ‘Why?’
The vendor shook his head. ‘He’s a good rider as a rule and well-behaved for one of them. He even threw me a piece of silver once. But that day, the kid came galloping out of the gate as if demons were after him. He whipped his horse mercilessly and had a face as black as the thunder god. The old woman was standing down there, at the street corner, selling her fans – it was hot as blazes and business was good. He took the corner too fast and the horse knocked her down. You could hear the crack it made up and down the street. Her stuff went flying everywhere. She screamed and fell into a fit. One of the boys ran to get the constables and they carried her away like a dead woman. It’s a miracle she didn’t die from it.’
‘His face was black? You mean he painted his face black?’ Tora asked, astonished.
The man gave him a look. ‘No. Of course not. Black with anger. He looked like the god of thunder or… well, like Fudo. You do know who Fudo is?’
Tora nodded. Fudo was one of the heavenly generals. He was always depicted as snarling ferociously. ‘So what do you think made him so angry?’
But the man did not know.
Down the street, Tora saw a tall female who looked like a fortune-teller. She was coming slowly in their direction. He nodded towards her and asked, ‘Is she a regular?’
The dumpling man looked. ‘She comes and goes. I don’t know what she’s up to. She walks right in and out through the gate.’ He shuddered. ‘With that look on her face, she must frighten customers away.’
Tora watched her with interest. She was tall, and both her expression and appearance were off-putting. Her clothes were made of rough white hemp, and her shawl was a deep red. Thick strands of beads and amulets hung about her neck and decorated her arms and the ankles above her bare feet. And her hair was a wild and tangled mane. But Tora looked beyond the scowl and saw that she was young and beautiful.
He grinned. ‘Why would a man be scared by a beauty like that?’
The dumpling man eyed him slyly. ‘Why don’t you go talk to her?’
Tora went to meet the fortune-teller at the open gates. She was going to enter, but Tora stepped in her path, flashing his wide smile. Few women could resist him when he smiled, but this one stopped and stared back with a face like stone.
What a beauty, he thought, even with that wild hair and those angry eyes. A man could lose himself in both. She was like some wild thing, and he itched to tame her. Not that he was being disloyal to his Hanae, but no real man could resist dreaming a little with such a challenge.
‘Greetings, my pretty little sister,’ he said, making her a bow. ‘I could use a good fortune told by a beautiful woman. How much will you charge me?’
She gave a shudder. ‘I’m not your sister. Go away.’
She had a striking voice, deep, almost masculine, but this was not the way to do business. Tora’s eyes narrowed, searching her face and body. Could it be a man in woman’s garb and a wig? He was not easily fooled in sexual matters, but her robe was full and he could not make out the shape of breasts under those thick strands of beads. Her hands were somewhat large but slender enough for a woman. And the face was smooth, but some men had little or no beard.
‘Are you deaf?’ the fortune-teller asked, raising her voice. ‘Scram! I have no time for lazy louts.’
Tora had no time for males in women’s clothing, but the problem was an interesting one. If this was a man, what was he doing here, dressed as a woman, and going to the Kiyowara mansion? And if a woman, why did she turn custom away?
He was about to follow up on the mystery when voices and hoof beats sounded inside the compound. Then a young rider on a very fine dapple-gray horse rode out of the gate. They both stepped out of the way.
Tora sucked in a breath. The horse was magnificent, tail flicking, ears perked, and red tassels swinging at every step. He loved fine horses, and this one was superb. Its rider was also easy on the eye: a slender youth dressed in a fine dark-green silk robe over full white trousers tucked into embroidered black boots. He sat the animal well and had a very handsome face.
He stopped before the fortune-teller, who bowed. ‘Mother asked for you,’ he said, then he spurred his fine horse and rode away. The fortune-teller watched his receding back for a moment, then walked through the gate.
Tora decided she was a female. She was tall for a woman and moved with great economy, walking erect and with a firm step, but her gait was a woman’s. What a creature! His face grew hot at the thought of bedding her.
Mildly ashamed, he rejoined the dumpling man, who said, ‘That was the young lord I told you about. Did he tell her to go in? I wonder what they want with her.’
Tora decided to share the information. You never knew when the dumpling man, so conveniently positioned, would become useful again. ‘Her Ladyship sent for her, it seems.’
The dumpling man shook his head in wonder. ‘Who needs a medium after a death?’
‘You got me there,’ Tora said. ‘The world’s full of strange things.’
He bought another dumpling – for Hanae because he felt guilty – and they parted on friendly terms.
As he was walking homeward, he pondered something even stranger than the beautiful fortune-teller. The young Lord Kiyowara had looked a lot like the boy in the market.
FOREBODINGS
As if things were not bad enough for the Sugawara household, Tamako’s condition suddenly took a dramatic turn the next day. She had spent a restless night and refused food in the morning. She complained of feeling feverish again. Akitada went out early to buy some things in the market, hoping to tempt her with oranges, sweet plums, mushrooms, chestnuts, a fresh bream from nearby Lake Biwa. He paid a boy to carry his purchases home and called on Kobe to find out how the investigation was going.
Since Kobe was out, Akitada returned home – to hear a monk chanting. Monks were generally called only if someone was seriously ill or near death. Akitada rushed into the house and burst into his study, where Seimei was bent over paperwork.
‘What’s wrong?’ he gasped.
Seimei looked up. ‘Nothing. When the pains started, Her Ladyship thought it was time. She sent for the doctor, but the pains subsided again. The doctor left a draught for her fever.’ Seimei shook his head. ‘Some unusual concoction. I could not find anything about it in my herbals. I h
ope the man knows what he is doing.’
Fear had drenched Akitada in cold perspiration. He loosened his collar. ‘But how is she now? Never mind. I’ll go see for myself.’ He turned on his heel and dashed off, bursting into Tamako’s room without announcing himself. His wife was resting on her bedding with a picture scroll open beside her. The monk’s chanting was so loud that he must be sitting outside her lowered shades. ‘I heard you were unwell,’ Akitada shouted. He was relieved that all seemed normal, but was becoming angry with himself for his unwarranted panic.
Tamako rolled up the picture scroll. ‘It was nothing. I was a little feverish, and there were some pains, but they stopped. I’m very sorry to disappoint you.’
Weak with relief, Akitada sat down abruptly and brushed the film of moisture from his face. ‘I was afraid,’ he said. ‘The chanting and the doctor… I suppose I… I keep remembering last year.’ He heaved a deep breath to steady himself. ‘Never mind. All is well? The pains are gone? You’re feeling quite… all right?’
She smiled a little and nodded. ‘Poor Akitada. This is harder for you than for me. Be patient. The child will be born, and the gods will protect it.’
They had to raise their voices.
‘Yes… but must we have the monk? It’s impossible to talk with that howling going on.’ He glared at the shades.
She hesitated. ‘They won’t like it if we send him back so quickly.’
He recalled that it was customary to have the sutras chanted to protect mother and child during birth, but they had not done so in Echigo when Yori was born because the heavy snows had prevented it. Akitada had experienced chanting only for the deaths that had occurred in his family. He shuddered. ‘If it makes you feel better, let him stay,’ he decided.
She reached for his hand. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Let him go. He makes me nervous, too.’
Back in his study, Seimei waited with his house robe.
‘How much is in the money box?’ Akitada asked, taking off his robe and untying his full silk trousers.
‘Apart from Tora’s gold, fifteen pieces of gold, about thirty of silver, and twenty strings of copper cash.’
So little.
‘Tell the monk he’s not needed quite yet and give him what you think is adequate for his work.’
‘Very well. But perhaps we should speak to a yin-yang master, sir. To cast the child’s fortune and to perform proper purification rites.’
Akitada stared at the old man, appalled. ‘Another expense? Purification rites? Next you’ll suggest we build a birthing hut out in the garden so the house won’t become polluted.’
Seimei did not look at him. ‘Such things are customary, sir. The empresses leave the palace when their time comes. The gods are offended by pollution.’
‘I’m not the emperor,’ thundered Akitada. ‘I simply cannot afford all that expense. Besides, I can’t imagine that Tamako would be more comfortable in a hut.’
Seimei folded his hands in his sleeves and raised his chin. ‘It is meant to protect your lady’s life and that of the child, sir. We should also have someone twanging a bowstring to drive the evil spirits away.’ He paused a moment. ‘And a medium to pray to the gods.’
‘Are you mad?’ Seimei knew very well his master’s aversion to anything that smacked of superstition.
Seimei fidgeted a moment, then said softly, ‘Better to lean on a stick than to fall down.’
That took Akitada’s breath away.
Theirs was a family where death had struck not long ago when his son Yori had died. Perhaps Seimei believed that had happened because they had not taken such precautions at his birth. In spite of the warmth in the room, Akitada shivered. He had no choice in this matter. Not if he did not want to be blamed again if anything went wrong.
‘You may speak to the yin-yang master,’ he said after a moment. ‘And the monk can come back at the time of the birth. Tora can twang his bow. But I will not have a half-crazed witch casting spells in my courtyard.’
Seimei smiled. ‘Very good, sir.’
There was a brief silence while Akitada mentally totted up expenses for the monk and the yin-yang master.
Seimei cleared his throat.
‘Anything else you’d like me to spend our dwindling funds on?’ Akitada snapped.
Seimei flushed a little. ‘No, sir. Tora went to the Kiyowara mansion to talk to a street vendor. He stopped by to talk to you, waited a while, but then said he’d be back later. I was to tell you that the young Lord Kiyowara was in a very bad temper the day of the murder. He rode down an old woman in the street.’
Akitada exploded. ‘What was Tora doing there? Any meddling in the Kiyowara case will make my situation worse. How will I explain to the Board of Censors why I sent my retainer to cause more trouble after they notified me of their displeasure?’
‘I am sorry, sir.’ Seimei shrank into himself. ‘I believe he was trying to help.’
Akitada grasped his head in frustration. ‘I wish everybody would stop helping me. If that is all your bad news, I think I’d like to be alone now.’
Seimei bowed and departed on silent feet, but Akitada heard the soft shuffle of dejection and felt guilty. His people suffered his misfortunes along with him and did not deserve his ill-tempered tongue-lashings. Especially not Seimei, that faithful man who had devoted himself to him, never asking for a life of his own or protesting against his master’s ill humor.
As a penance, he spent the day composing his defense against the accusations the censors were likely to bring against him. He had no doubt that they would build a monstrous case, a case that would use the murder of Kiyowara as only the latest in a long string of treasonable and rebellious acts.
The task was painful because he disliked bragging about achievements that seemed to him frequently flawed by misjudgements along the way or successful only by some lucky chance. But he weighed against this the injustices done to him over the years.
He began with his family background, reminding them of his illustrious ancestor, Sugawara Michizane, that brilliant, good, and loyal servant to the empire who had suffered exile and death at the hands of his political enemies. The Fujiwaras had believed for two centuries that Michizane’s ghost had visited misfortune upon them. Perhaps they might believe that he would also protect his descendant against unjust charges.
He mentioned his distinguished university career and the fact that he had placed first in the examination. Then he moved on to the special assignments he had accepted and brought to successful conclusions against everyone’s expectations. The case of the lost tax convoys from Kazusa, where he had foiled the plot of a treasonous abbot, was one of these. The removal of Uesugi, the warlord in Echigo who had attempted to seize control of a province, was another. He reminded them of the island province of Sado, where he had almost died and had suffered wounds that still caused him pain. In Sado, the emperor’s exiled brother had attempted to join with the hostile forces in the North to seize the throne. Oh, yes, they owed him better treatment than this.
At this point, Akitada interrupted his work to look in on Tamako. The women – she was with Hanae and Oyuki – were busy sewing, while Yuki crawled about between them and played with bits of colored cloth. It was a cheerful scene, and the slight fever made Tamako’s face rosy so that she looked deceptively healthy. They were cutting and sewing small garments from old robes. He thought he recognized a lovely rose-colored silk that he had particularly liked on Tamako. But for a boy? He said nothing about this, however, and instead chatted about the absent Genba and the dog Trouble, and how he missed them – yes, even that shaggy dog. For their part, they also kept their comments to happier times.
When Yuki began to whimper and pull on his mother’s sleeve, Hanae said, ‘He’s hungry,’ and put him to her breast. Akitada thought that soon he would see his own child at its mother’s breast. That made him smile, and he reached for Tamako’s hand.
Tamako looked first at him and then at Hanae with the baby, understood, and sai
d, ‘What a very fortunate thing, Hanae, that you’re still nursing.’
What did she mean by that? Did she expect Hanae to nurse their child also? She had nursed Yori. Would she not do the same for this child? True, women of his class rarely nursed their own children, but Tamako had never behaved like them.
Hanae shot him a glance and said, ‘Don’t fret, My Lady. I won’t be needed,’ and Akitada understood that Tamako had made preparations for her death. Deeply shocked, he jumped up and left without another word.
The fears were back, and they were more real than ever.
In his study, he paced without finding any consolation or hope. In the end, he did what he had not done for a long time now. He retrieved his flute and walked outside with it. Playing his flute reminded him of Yori’s death. He would always associate it with death now. It was a great pity because before that dreadful time, the flute had given him many hours of pleasure and brought him peace when he had been troubled.
He was still playing, fumblingly because he had forgotten the tunes, when Seimei joined him on the veranda. His mind on death and dying, Akitada lowered the flute and asked anxiously, ‘Is anything wrong?’
‘No, sir. A messenger has arrived with a letter for you.’ Seimei held it out with both hands. ‘From Lady Kiyowara.’
Akitada was so astonished that he gaped at the prettily folded square for a moment before opening it. He caught a whiff of expensive incense, and the paper was thick and beautiful. The handwriting also was quite exquisite. The message was short: ‘Lady Kiyowara begs Lord Sugawara to call on her.’
‘She wants to see me,’ he said blankly.
‘Shall I get out your good robe and trousers, sir?’
Akitada looked up at the sun. Ladies of her rank expected promptness. ‘Yes,’ he said. He heard Seimei’s footsteps receding and called after him, ‘Thank you, Seimei. For everything.’
The steps paused. ‘It is a pleasure, sir. Always.’
THE WIDOW
