by I. J. Parker
“Well, you’d think so,” said the servant. “It certainly gives me the chills. It’s not as if it were in good repair, either. It’s going to rack and ruin.”
“The setting is beautiful. I suppose the view inspires poetry.” The servant grimaced. “I don’t know about poetry. They always talk a lot and keep us running, but we’re not allowed to stay and listen. I doubt it’s poetry though, because mostly it looks more like they’re arguing. Especially Lord Taira. He’s got a terrible temper. I’ll tell the professor you’re done.” Akitada walked out on the veranda. The sweeping of the path and the pavilion completed, the fat servant was staggering down the path with a stack of cushions in his arms. Four. Kumo, Taira, Sakamoto, and one other. Shunsei? Like the disgruntled servant, Akitada doubted it would be a social gathering and wished again he could eavesdrop.
It was interesting that the servants were warned away between servings. It meant confidential matters were being discussed. It was impossible to approach the pavilion unseen.
Or was it?
Akitada was wondering if he could stroll down there for a closer look without causing undue suspicion when Sakamoto rushed in.
“Finished?” he cried. “Good.” He ran to the desk, snatched up the letter, skimmed it, nodded, and signed. As he impressed his personal seal next to the signature, he said, “My compliments. An excellent hand and the style is acceptable.” Letter in hand, he told Akitada, “I wish I had more time to talk to you. A man like you could be very useful. I shall speak to the high constable about you tonight.”
Akitada bowed. “Thank you, sir, but the high constable is aware of my abilities.”
“As you wish.” Sakamoto handed the letter over. “Well, good luck to you, then, and give my compliments to the inspector.
Tell him I’ll ask Dr. Nakatomi to take a look at him if he is still indisposed tomorrow.”
As Akitada walked back to the inn, he considered Nakatomi as the fourth guest. Nakatomi had not only been Okisada’s personal physician, but it was he who had determined that the prince had been poisoned by young Mutobe’s stew. Kumo, Taira, and Nakatomi. It was crucial to find out what these three men had to say to each other, and Akitada thought he knew a way to get to the pavilion unseen.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE LAKE
Osawa was dressed and sitting in the sun on the veranda outside his room. The veranda overlooked a narrow dusty courtyard with a small empty koi pond and a twisted pine. Osawa no longer looked ill. In fact, there was a sleek look of contentment about him which changed quickly to disappointment when he saw who had come into the room.
“Oh, it’s you. I must say you took your time. That lazy slug Genzo has disappeared, too.”
Akitada explained and produced the letter.
Osawa made a face. “I suppose that means we’ll have to move on tomorrow. I don’t understand what the big rush is, but who am I to question the governor? Well, you two have had a nice rest, anyway. You’d better both be up by dawn and have the horses saddled. It’ll be a hard ride to Tsukahara.” They would start their homeward loop, spending the night in Shunsei’s monastery near Tsukahara. The monastery collected the local rice taxes, and Osawa customarily visited it on his rounds. Monasteries also offered accommodations for travelers, and, apart from the strictly vegetarian and wineless meals, these were far more comfortable than sharing some farmer’s hut or sleeping in the open. Osawa, Akitada knew by now, was not given to roughing it.
Asking for instructions, Akitada was told, with some hem-ming and hawing, to report to the landlady and make himself generally useful. This astonished him, especially since Osawa blushed and avoided his eyes.
In the kitchen a strange gray-haired woman was at work preparing a meal, while their hostess, dressed in a fetching robe with a colorful chrysanthemum pattern and with her hair neatly tied up in a silk ribbon, gave her instructions for an elaborate feast.
“And be sure that there are plenty of pine mushrooms and bamboo sprouts,” she told the older woman. “Master Osawa is particularly fond of those. I’ll be serving him myself, but you can bring the food and wine to the door of his room.” She saw Akitada then. “Oh, you’re finally back. Would you bring in more wood for the fire? There’s some soup left if you’re hungry, but eat it quickly. I need you to go to Haru’s husband and buy some awabi and a sea bream for your master’s dinner. His shop is next to the Bamboo Grove Restaurant. Tell him I’ll pay later.” Seeing Akitada admiring her costume, she smiled and added with a wink, “Your master is better and feels like a little company.”
The older woman gave a snort, but Akitada grinned and bowed. “Ah! Osawa is a lucky man.”
“Thank you,” his hostess said, patting her hair, and walked away with a seductive wiggle of her slender hips.
Akitada whistled.
The elderly woman at the fire straightened up and glared at him. “Where’s that wood?”
Akitada brought it and then helped himself to the small bit of cold broth with a few noodles, which was all that remained in the pot.
“Make yourself right at home, don’t you?” sneered the old woman.
“Just trying to save you the trouble, auntie.”
“Don’t call me auntie,” she snapped. “That’s what whores call their old bawds. Maybe that’s what my slut of a daughter makes of me, but I brought her up decent. Hurry up with that soup and get the fish. I have enough to do without having to wait for your convenience.”
Akitada gobbled his soup meekly and departed with a basket.
He knew where Haru’s husband sold his fish, but since the restaurant was open, he decided to meet the famous Haru herself.
He found her on the veranda, bent over to beat the dust out of some straw mats and presenting an interestingly volup-tuous view of her figure. His landlady’s rival, both as a hostess and as a woman, she was about the same age but considerably plumper.
Akitada cleared his throat. Haru swung around, broom in hand, and looked at him, her eyes widening with pleasure.
“Welcome,
handsome,” she crooned, laughing black eyes admiring him. “And what can little Haru do to make you completely happy?”
Midday lovemaking must be in the air in Minato, thought Akitada. He returned her smile and stammered out his errand like some awkward schoolboy.
“Poor boy,” she said, laying aside her broom and coming closer. “You’re a little lost, but never mind. Does Takao treat you well?” She put her hand familiarly on his chest, feeling his muscles. “Where did that lucky girl find someone as young and strong as you to work for her?”
“I’m not really working there. My master’s staying at the inn and asked me to lend a hand while she sees to his dinner.”
“So that’s the way it is.” She cocked her head. “Pity she prefers your master. I could use someone like you to lend me a hand.” She reached for his and placed it on her rounded hip.
“How much time can you spare me?”
Akitada could feel her warm skin through the thin fabric and flushed in spite of himself. Haru was not in the least attractive to him, but her forwardness and overt sexual invitation reminded him of Masako. Suddenly their recent lovemaking struck him as no more than a coming together of two lecherous people, and he felt a sour disgust-with himself for having lost his self-control, and with Masako for being unchaste. He had not been the first man to lie with her. Women were very clever at pretending love.
But men could learn and be wary. He snatched his hand back from Haru’s hot body and hid it behind his back. “I’ll go see your husband. All I need is some awabi, and-” She smiled. “Foolish man. You don’t need awabi. That’s what old men eat to regain their vigor. All you need is a good woman. And don’t worry about my husband; he doesn’t care.” She stroked his shoulder and played with his sash.
Akitada retreated. There were limits to how far he was prepared to go in the interest of an investigation. He wished he had Tora here. This situation would suit his rakish lieutenan
t perfectly. He said, trying to look disappointed, “You are very kind, but I’m afraid I can’t. They’re waiting for the fish. I’d better find your husband. Goodbye.” He bowed and turned to go.
She followed him, chuckling. “He’s out on the lake. Never mind. I’ll see you get your fish, and the best, too, even though that stupid Takao doesn’t deserve it.” They passed through the restaurant, where a few locals were noisily slurping soup, and into the kitchen. A sweating girl was chopping vegetables to add to the big pot which simmered on the fire. The fish soup smelled very good, and Akitada said so.
“Would you like some?” Haru asked.
“I have no money.”
“I’ll add it to Takao’s bill,” she said, and grabbed a bowl and the ladle. Filling the bowl generously, she handed it to him.
“Bring it along to the fish shack and tell me what she wants. You can eat while I get the fish.”
“Some awabi, and a bream,” he said, inhaling the smell of the soup. “Thank you for the soup. I only had a few noodles at the inn.”
She snorted. “I’m a very good cook. Much better than Takao. Much better in bed, too, I’ll bet.” They passed out into the sunlight and walked to the shack where Akitada had met Haru’s husband that morning.
“See, he’s not here,” said Haru, giving him a sideways look.
“And it’ll be hours before he gets back.” Akitada pretended not to understand. The baskets and casks, empty this morning, were now mostly filled with the day’s catch.
She busied herself gathering the fish and putting them in his basket, while he looked around with pretended interest. “Do you sell much blowfish?”
“Fugu? ” She turned and peered into a small cask. “You want some?” she asked, lifting up a small fish by its tail. It flapped about and swelled into a ball. She laughed. “They say, ‘ Fugu is sweet, but life is sweeter.’ Don’t worry. I know how to clean it so it’s safe. I also know how to prepare it so you think you’ve gone to paradise because you feel so wonderful.” She dropped the fish back into the water with a splash.
“Oh? Are there different ways of preparing it?”
“Yes. Many people know how to make fugu safe, even in the summer, but only a few know how to leave just a bit of the poison, not enough to kill you, but enough to let you visit paradise and come back.”
“It sounds dangerous. Is there much call for it?” She smiled. “You’d be surprised who likes to take such risks to reach nirvana. Of course, it’s not cheap.” Akitada took a chance. “I heard the Second Prince was fond of fugu,” he lied. “Do you suppose that’s what killed him?” Her smile disappeared instantly. “Who’s been saying my fish killed the prince?” she demanded, her eyes flashing angrily. “Was it Takao? I had nothing to do with that, do you hear? It was bad enough when they thought I’d poisoned my prawn stew. There was nothing wrong with that stew when the governor’s son picked it up. I served it in the restaurant and we ate it ourselves.
I bet that Takao’s spreading lies again because she’s jealous that I’m a better cook and do a better business. I’ll kill that trollop.” She grabbed up a knife, her face contorted with fury.
“No, no,” Akitada said, eyeing the knife uneasily in case she might force her way past by slashing at him. “Please don’t get excited, Haru. It wasn’t Takao. I heard the story of the poisoning in Mano. Hearing you talk about fugu made me think, that’s all.” She stared at him, then put the knife down. “People talk too much,” she said in a tired voice. “It’s true the prince liked fugu, but I had nothing to do with his death. And that’s all I’ve got to say.” She had lost interest in him, and Akitada was glad to make his escape so easily. In spite of her denials, he was certain that she, and her husband, knew something that was connected with the prince’s death and the poisonous fugu fish.
Having delivered the fish to Takao’s mother and fetched some water for her, he found that she wished him gone. Snatching up a rice dumpling in lieu of his evening meal, he left for the lake.
When he passed Sakamoto’s house, he saw that the gates were closed again and all was quiet inside. He had to walk a long way before he found a place to get down to the water. An over-grown field, shaded by large firs and oaks, suited him perfectly.
He worked his way through the undergrowth and brambles to the muddy bank, where thick reeds hid most of the lake, stirring up first a rabbit and then a pair of ducks, which protested loudly and flew off with a clatter of wings. He was fond of waterfowl, but could have done without them at this juncture. Taking off his boots and outer robe, he waded into the water, parting the reeds until they thinned enough for him to see along the shore to Sakamoto’s place. He recognized it immediately because it was the only one with a pavilion on the lakeshore. The distance was shorter than he had expected, because the lake formed a small bay here, and the road he had followed had made a wide loop. There was no one in the pavilion yet.
He glanced up at the sun: at least an hour until sunset.
Returning to shore, he put on his robe and boots again, found a dry and comfortable spot among the grass and buttercups, and lay down for a nap.
When he awoke, the shadows had thickened and gnats had left behind itching spots on his face and hands. The sun was almost gone, and the sky had changed to a soft lavender. Akitada got up and stretched, disturbing a large ibis fishing in the shallows. It thrashed away through the reeds with a clatter, its curving red beak and pink flight feathers bright against the large white body, then took flight over the open water, followed by the scolding ducks.
Waterfowl presented an unforeseen problem. Ducks in particular always set up a loud clamor when disturbed. But he would have to risk that. He decided to do some more exploring first.
This time he not only removed his boots and robe, but his pants and loincloth also, and waded naked into the muddy water, sloshing along, his bare feet sinking deep into the mud and feeling their way among sharp bits of debris and reed stubble.
When he emerged from the reeds, the water was chest-high and the bottom of the lake smoother and less soft. Some fishermen were a long way out in the middle of the lake. They would hardly see a swimmer at that distance, and as soon as the sun was gone, they would be making for home.
He swam about a little, the water cool against his hot and itchy skin, and felt quite cheerful and optimistic about his plan.
Above, seagulls dipped and dove, their wingtips flashing gold in the last rays of the sun, their cries remote and mournful. He had a good view of the shoreline and saw that he would have to rely on the reeds to hide him.
And there they came, small figures moving down the hillside from Sakamoto’s villa, a servant running ahead carrying a gleaming lantern. It was time.
Akitada swam back to his hiding place to rest a little and eat his rice dumpling. He did not want his empty stomach giving him away with inappropriate rumblings later.
Then he set out, cutting boldly across the small bay, swimming smoothly. The sun had disappeared behind Mount Kimpoku, and the land lay in shadow while the sky still blazed a fiery red, turning the surface of the lake the color of blood. The fishermen were headed home to their families, and up ahead, lit eerily by lanterns, waited the pavilion where an imperial prince had died of poison.
He caught glimpses of the seated men and saw servants popping up and disappearing as they brought food, knelt to serve, and then left again. The closer he got, the more chance there was that someone would glance his way and notice the head of a swimmer bobbing in the lake. And this time he would not be able to talk himself out of it with Kumo.
When he was within a hundred feet, he turned back toward the reeds and slipped into their protection. Progress became slow and difficult. Akitada moved in a crouch, using channels left by
fishermen whenever possible. Once he froze after raising an egret.
It flew off, awkwardly flapping its huge wings until it was air-borne and soared like a silver ghost across the darkening sky.
Abruptly the reeds
stopped, and an open channel of water stretched between him and the pavilion. Someone had cleared away the water grasses to make sure no boats could approach the pavilion unseen. Such precautions made his undertaking seem all the more vital.
Up in the pavilion, in the yellow light of lanterns hanging from the eaves, he could see the four men. They sat facing each other and were eating and talking quietly.
Kumo, the only one who wore his hair loose, had his back to Akitada. Next to Kumo sat the gray-haired, round-shouldered Sakamoto. Another old man, probably Taira, with white hair and improbably black brows, looking bent with age and scrawny as an old crow in his black robe, sat across from Sakamoto. The fourth man must be Nakatomi. He was partially hidden by Kumo’s broad back, but wore a rich robe of patterned blue brocade. Whoever he was, fortune had treated him well.
But Akitada could not remain forever in the shelter of the reeds. He did not relish the idea of crossing open water, but decided that, being in the light, the four men would not notice a lone swimmer in the dark lake. This conviction was almost immediately put to the test when Kumo got up and stepped to the balustrade. Akitada sank down, keeping his face half sub-merged. But Kumo merely emptied the dregs from his wine cup and returned to the others.
Moving slowly and smoothly so he would not make any noisy splashes, Akitada half swam, half crawled through the shallow water, keeping his face down so that his dark hair would blend with the water.
When he was close enough to hear them, the water no longer covered him completely and he had to hurry. Slithering across the mud on his belly, he scraped his skin painfully on stubble, but he kept his face down until he reached cover.
He had almost made it when there was a shout above, and he stopped. Naked and defenseless, he lay in the mud, imagining an arrow in his back, though it was not likely that any of the four was armed. But nothing happened, and after a moment he peered up. The surly servant was running up the steps, and Sakamoto asked for more wine.
