by I. J. Parker
You’re Sugawara Akitada, an official from Echigo, come to catch us fools at our misdeeds. Look who’s the fool now!” He bent until his face was close to Akitada’s. “This is Sadoshima, my lord, not the capital. You made a bad mistake when you became a convict and put yourself into our hands.”
So. The charade was over.
“Since you know who I am and why I am here,” Akitada snapped coldly, “you also know that continuing this will cost you your life.”
Wada threw back his head and laughed. “You still don’t get it,” he cried, pointing an exulting finger at Akitada. “It’s not my life, but yours that’s lost. Quick or slow, you’ll die. Have no doubt about that. We’ll take you to a place you won’t leave alive and where it won’t matter how loudly you proclaim your name, your rank, and your former position, for nobody will come to your rescue.” Still laughing and shaking his head, he walked away.
Surprisingly, Akitada’s only reaction was relief that he no longer needed to pretend. While he had not precisely disliked the convict Taketsuna, Taketsuna had been a man who had humbled himself with a cheerfulness which had cost Akitada such effort that he had become both foolish and careless about other matters. No wonder a creature like Wada sneered.
He considered his next step. Of course, there was no longer any doubt that Wada was part of the conspiracy. Akitada had not missed Wada’s use of the word “we” when he had talked about his prisoner’s future. Whoever had arrived and given Wada his orders had, for some reason, decided that a slow death was preferable to a quick demise. That was interesting in itself, but more immediately it meant he had gained precious time.
Had Wada continued the beating, he could not have saved himself. Now, however unpleasant the immediate future, he might get another chance to escape.
Apparently he would be moved soon, and far enough to make riding necessary. He looked at his swollen knee. The pain was fading a little. Wada’s manipulation had not necessarily reassured him that nothing was broken, though. He must try to move it as little as possible. At the moment, when even the smallest jolt caused shooting pains all the way up his thigh and down his leg, he was not tempted. He wriggled his wrists again.
Was the chain looser than before?
They were coming back, Wada and two constables, each leading a saddled horse. Wada got in his saddle and watched as the two men untied Akitada’s chain from the tree and then led a horse over. Three horses and four men? Was one of the constables expected to run alongside?
On the whole, while they looked sullen, their treatment of him on this occasion showed a marked improvement. They lifted him into the saddle, a process which was only moderately painful because they allowed him to clutch his knee until he could prop his foot into the stirrup. Their consideration made him wonder what he was being saved for. Once he was in the saddle, they briefly freed his wrists to rechain them in front so he could hold the reins.
To all of this Akitada submitted passively and without comment. He felt as weak as a newborn. All his strength was focused on protecting the injured knee. He realized that, even supported by the stirrup, his leg would respond to every step of the horse, and that the journey, possibly a long one, might make him reconsider the option of a quick death.
But before they could start, there was another shout from the road. Wada stiffened. “Keep an eye on him,” he snapped, and cantered off.
Two thoughts occurred to Akitada: Someone, foe or friend, was on the road. And the two constables were not as watchful as they should be, because they took the opportunity of Wada’s absence to get into a bitter argument about who was riding the third horse. He would not get another chance like this.
Kicking the horse as hard as he could with his good leg, he took off after Wada. His knee spasmed, behind him the constables shouted, before him branches whipped at his face, but he burst into the open at a full gallop. Wada was on the road, talking to another rider. He turned, his mouth sagging open in surprise. Then he flung about his horse to intercept him.
But Akitada’s eyes had already moved to the other man.
Kumo. He made a desperate attempt to wheel away, but his injured leg refused to cooperate. The horse, confused by mixed signals, stopped and danced, and Wada kept coming. In an instant they faced each other. Wada, his sword raised, looked murderous. At the last moment, Akitada raised his chained hands to catch the descending blade in the loop of chain between them. The force of the strike jerked him forward and sideways. Miraculously, he caught the reins and clung on as his horse reared and shot forward. Then another horse closed in, they collided, and both animals reared wildly.
This time, he was flung off backward, and landed hard. For a single breath, he looked up at the blue sky, tried to hold back the darkness that blotted out the day, tried to deny the pain, the fear of dying, and then he fell into oblivion.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
TORA
Almost a month after the arrival of Yoshimine Taketsuna on Sado Island, another ship from Echigo brought a young man in military garb. Under the watchful eyes of several people, the new arrival made his way from the ship to a small wine shop overlooking Mano Harbor. He was a handsome fellow with white teeth under a trim mustache, and he wore his shiny new half armor and sword with a slight swagger. A scruffy individual in loincloth and tattered shirt limped behind him with his bundle of belongings.
The rank insignia on the visitor’s breastplate marked him as a lieutenant of the provincial guard. Both the iron helmet with its small knobs and the leather-covered breastplate shone with careful waxing. Full white cotton trousers tucked into black boots and a loose black jacket covered his broad shoulders.
He took a seat on one of the benches outside the shop and removed his helmet, mopping it and his sweaty brow with a bright green cloth square he carried in his sleeve. Then he pounded his fist on the rough table. His bearer limped over and squatted down on the ground beside him.
“Hey,” growled the officer, “you can’t sit here. Go over there where I don’t have to smell you.”
Obediently the man got up and moved.
“Miserable wretches don’t know what respect is,” grumbled the new arrival, and eyed the bearer’s bony frame with a frown.
Surely the man was over forty, he thought, too old for hard physical labor. Besides, he was crippled. One of his legs was shorter than the other. Worse, the fellow looked starved, with every rib and bone trying to work its way through the leathery skin.
He turned impatiently and pounded the table again. A fat, dirty man in a short gown and stained apron appeared in the doorway and glared into the sun. Seeing the helmet and sword, he rushed forward to bow and offer greetings to the honorable officer.
“Never mind all that,” said his guest. “Bring me some wine and give that bearer over there something to eat and some water to drink. If I don’t feed him, he’ll collapse with my bundle.” The officer was Tora, normally in charge of the constables at the provincial headquarters of Echigo, but now on a mission to find his master.
Glancing about him, he rubbed absentmindedly at the red line the heavy helmet had left on his forehead. Made of thick iron and lined with leather, even half armor was heavy and uncomfortable, but his was new and he was still inordinately proud of it.
The owner of the wine shop returned with the order. He set a flask and cup down on the table and turned to take a chipped bowl filled with some reeking substance to the bearer, when Tora clamped an iron fist around his arm.
“What is that stinking slop?” he demanded.
“Er, fish soup, sir.”
Tora sniffed. “It stinks,” he announced, and jerked the man’s arm, spilling the soup in a wide arc into the street. Immediately seagulls swooped down with raucous cries to fight over the scattered morsels. He growled, “Get fresh food or I’ll put my fist into that loose mouth of yours.”
“Yes, sir, right away, sir,” gasped the man, rubbing his wrist and backing away. From a safe distance, he pleaded, “But he’s only a
beggar. Lucky to get anything. I wouldn’t have charged much.”
“What?” roared Tora, rising to his feet. The man fled, and quickly reappeared with a fresh bowl, which he presented to Tora, who first smelled and then tasted it. Satisfied, he nodded.
The squatting servant received the food with many bows and toothless grins toward his benefactor before raising it to his mouth and emptying it in one long swallow.
“Give him another,” instructed Tora. “He likes it.” Having seen to the feeding of his bearer, Tora poured himself some wine and leaned back to look around.
He had spent the crossing planning his approach carefully.
Tora was not much given to planning, but life with his master had taught him to respect danger. In the present situation, he knew he must restrain his anxiety and move cautiously to gather information without precipitating unfortunate develop-ments. His master had used a disguise. Perhaps it had failed.
Tora felt that nothing was to be gained by doing the same.
Something had clearly gone wrong, or he would have returned or sent a message by now. As it was, they had waited well beyond the time of his master’s expected return.
Though it was a beautiful late summer afternoon, with the sun glistening on the bay, seagulls wheeling against a blue sky, and colorful flags flying over the gate of a nearby palisade, Tora frowned. There was nothing cheerful about the people here.
Half-naked bearers were unloading bales and boxes from the ship. They were younger, stronger, and better fed than the pathetic creature guarding Tora’s bundle, but their expressions were uniformly sullen or dejected. There was no talk. Neither jokes nor curses passed their lips as they crept, bent double under their loads, along the beach toward piles of goods stock-piling under the eyes of bored guards.
Tora considered the cripple. Their host had referred to him as a beggar, but the ragged creature had offered his services as a bearer. On second thought, the man could not have handled anything much heavier than Tora’s bundle, which contained little more than a change of clothes.
The man bowed and grinned. At least four of his front teeth were gone, he had a flattened nose, and one ear was misshapen.
Either he was incredibly foolhardy about getting into fights, or he had been beaten repeatedly. Tora thought the latter and beckoned the man over.
He rushed up with that lopsided limp of his and carefully positioned himself downwind. “Yes, your honor?”
“What’s your name?”
“Taimai.”
“Taimai? Turtle?”
The man nodded. “It’s lucky.”
“Hmm.” Tora glanced at the skinny, twisted figure and disagreed. “Well, Turtle, would you know of a good cheap inn?”
“Yes, yes,” Turtle crowed, jumping up and down in his eagerness. “Just around the corner. Very cheap and excellent accommodations.”
Tora rose, dropping some coppers on the table. The host rushed out and scooped them up eagerly. He bowed several times. “Come again, your honor. Come again.” Paid the rascal too much, Tora thought as he put on his helmet and followed the limping Turtle into town.
“Just a moment!” said a high, sharp voice behind him.
Tora turned and recognized the red-coated police officer, also a lieutenant. He had come on board ship to check everybody’s papers before they disembarked. Under normal circumstances, Tora would have struck up a conversation and proposed a friendly cup of wine, but there was something about the man that he did not like. He had passed his papers over silently, and the lieutenant had studied them silently, giving Tora a long measuring look from small mean eyes before returning them without comment.
Tora now narrowed his eyes and looked the other man over, from his meager mustache to his leather boots, and said, “Yes?”
“Where are you going with that piece of shit? I thought you had a dispatch for the governor.”
Tora turned to glance at Turtle, who had shifted his small twisted body behind Tora’s bulk and looked terrified. “Is there a local law against hiring someone to carry your baggage?”
“There’s a law against associating with felons. You!” the policeman snapped, advancing on Turtle. “Out of here! Now!” Turtle dropped Tora’s bundle and scurried off.
“Stop!” roared Tora, and Turtle came to a wobbly halt.
He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes wide with fear. “Stay there.” Tora turned back to the policeman. “What is your name, Lieutenant?” he asked in a dangerously soft voice.
There was a pause while they stared at each other. Then the policeman said, “Wada,” and added, “I’ll get you another bearer.
Hey, you! Over here! A job for you.” A big fellow with bulging muscles and the brutish expression of an animal trotted over.
“No,” said Tora. “I like the one I picked. Now, if you don’t mind, I have business to take care of. I wouldn’t want to explain to your governor that I was detained by the local police.” He turned his back on Wada, picked up the bundle, and took it over to the cripple. With a nervous glance at the policeman, Turtle accepted his burden again, and they continued on their way.
Wada’s shrill voice sounded after them, “I’m warning you, bastard. The ship leaves in the morning. Make sure you’re on it.” Tora froze.
“Don’t, please! He’s a bad man,” whispered Turtle on his heels.
Tora threw up an arm in acknowledgment of Wada’s words and started walking again. “He says you’re a felon,” he told Turtle.
“Huh?”
“A felon’s someone who’s committed a crime and been convicted,” Tora explained.
“Then he told a lie,” Turtle cried in a tone of outrage. “Him and his constables are always picking on me. I’m innocent as a newborn child. More so.”
“Very funny.”
It became obvious that the inn was not close by. They passed through most of Mano to a run-down area on the outskirts. The term “inn” could hardly be applied to the place. It was the worst sort of hostel Tora had ever seen, a small, dirty tenement which appeared to cater to the occasional whore and her customers.
Turtle bustled ahead and brought out a slatternly woman who was nursing a child and dragging along several toddlers clinging to her ragged skirt. Other children in various degrees of undress and filth peered out at them. This landlady, or brothel keeper if you wanted to split hairs, was grinning widely at the sight of a well-to-do customer. A missing tooth and a certain scrawniness suggested a family connection with Turtle. Sure enough, he introduced her as his sister. Tora glanced around, wrinkled his nose at the aroma of sweat and rancid food, sighed, and asked for a room and a bath.
The bath was to be had down the street in a very fine public establishment, Turtle offered cheerfully. Was ten coppers too much for the room? Tora looked at the skinny children and their mother’s avid eyes and passed over a handful of coppers with a request for a hot meal in the evening. The woman bowed so deeply that the child at her breast let out a shrill cry.
Tora followed Turtle down a narrow, odorous hallway to a small dark room. It was hot and airless. Tora immediately threw open the shutters and looked out at a side yard where several rats scurried from a pile of garbage and a few rags dried on a broken bamboo fence.
Turtle had placed Tora’s bundle in a corner and was dragging in an armful of grimy bedding.
“Never mind that,” Tora said quickly. “I always sleep on the bare floor.”
Turtle looked stricken. “It’s very soft and nice,” he urged anxiously. “And the nights get cold here. Besides, it’s only a dirt floor.”
Hard use and filth had smoothed and polished the ground until it could be taken for dark wood in the half-light. Tora had slept on the bare earth before, but usually in the open and in cleaner places than this. He weakened. “Well . . . just one quilt, then.” He knew he would regret it, but the poor wretch looked relieved. Turning his back on the accommodations, he looked out over the neighboring tenements toward the curved roofs of the provincial hea
dquarters on the hillside. Its flags fluttered in the breeze, and he was suddenly impatient.
He was halfway out the hostel’s door when he heard Turtle shouting after him, “Wait, master. I’ll come with you or you’ll get lost. I know everything about Mano and can be very useful.” Before Tora could refuse, a small boy rushed in from the street and collided with him. Vegetables, salted fish, a small bag of rice, and a few copper coins in change spilled from his basket.
His uncle fell to scolding him, and Tora realized that his money had bought a feast for a starving family.
“Very well, Turtle,” he said, when the nephew had disappeared into the kitchen, “you can be my servant while I’m here.
I’ll pay you two coppers a day plus your food.” Turtle whooped, then fell to his knees and beat his head on the floor in gratitude. Tora turned away, embarrassed. “Hurry up,” he growled. “We’re going to see the governor.”
“Yes, master. We’re going to see the governor.” Turtle was up and hopping away, chanting happily, “We’re going to see the governor.”
Tora caught up. “Stop that,” he snapped. “I want to ask you something.” Turtle was all attention. “Tell me about that police officer. What happened?”
The crippled man touched his nose and misshapen ear.
“Wada is a bad man,” he said again, shaking his head. “Very bad.
Watch out. He doesn’t like you.” He glanced around to make sure they were alone and added in a whisper, “He kills people.
Me, I just get beaten.”
Tora frowned. “Why do you get beaten? Didn’t you tell me that you’re as innocent as a babe?”
Turtle shrugged. “I get in his way.”
“That’s no reason. You must’ve done something. He called you a fel . . . er, criminal.”
Turtle drew himself up. “I’m an honest man,” he said. “Besides, I’m not the only one that gets beaten up for nothing by the constables. Wada likes to watch. Just ask around.”
