by I. J. Parker
“Why don’t you complain? Ring the bell at the tribunal and lay a charge against him?”
“Hah,” said Turtle. “There’s a bell, all right, but nobody rings it. Especially not now. The governor has his own troubles.” Tora had been momentarily distracted from Turtle’s chatter by a very pretty shop girl. He winked at her and was pleased when she blushed and smiled. “Troubles?” he asked absently, craning his neck for another glimpse of her trim waist and sparkling eyes.
“The governor’s son poisoned the prince. Hadn’t you heard?
It was a bad affair. He was about to go before the judge, but he ran away from the prison here. People say the governor helped him and that he’ll be recalled. So he’s hardly going to listen to complaints from someone like me.”
Turtle had Tora’s full attention now. “The son escaped?
When did that happen?”
Turtle frowned. “Seven-no, eight days ago. They couldn’t find him in Mano or the other towns and villages, so they’re searching the mountains now. I bet he’s long gone on one of the pirate boats.”
It made sense. Everybody knew about the pirates who plied their trade between the mainland and Sadoshima. If the Sadoshima governor’s son had fled the island, he had headed either to Echigo or Awa Province. More likely the latter because of the unrest there. During troubled times, a man could disappear without a trace. The question was, did the escape have anything to do with the master’s disappearance. Well, he was about to find out.
When they reached the gate of the provincial headquarters, Tora told his companion that he would probably have to wait outside, then identified himself and his errand to a guard engaged in lively repartee with several young women. The guard waved Tora through with barely a glance.
Shocking discipline, thought Tora. Not even a request for papers. In fact, the guard had only bothered to bar the way to the ragged Turtle.
Inside the compound, Tora saw more signs of slovenly standards. Off-duty guards were shooting dice with clerks, and trash blew across the graveled courtyards. He made his way to the governor’s residence without being stopped. Nobody seemed to care who he was or where he was going.
Inside the residence, he found neither guards nor servants, nor the customary clerks and secretaries. Eventually he almost stumbled over a dozing servant and asked directions. The man yawned and pointed toward a door before turning over to resume his nap.
Expecting the door to lead to another hallway, Tora opened it and stepped through. To his dismay he had walked into a study occupied by two elderly gentlemen. One of them was clearly the governor.
Tora bowed deeply. “This insignificant person humbly apologizes. There was no guard outside the door.” The two gentlemen did not seem surprised. The governor behind the desk was a thin, pale man in official black silk robe and hat, while a chubby individual in brown sat toward the side.
Both looked drawn and dejected.
“Come in, whoever you are,” said the governor. His voice was so listless that Tora had trouble hearing him. “Close the door behind you if you have anything to say that you would rather not have overheard.”
Tora closed the door.
“I’m Mutobe and this is Superintendent Yamada. Why are you here?”
Yamada’s brown silk gown was stained and wrinkled, he was hatless, and his gray hair was carelessly tied. He also looked as though he had been weeping.
Tora saluted. “Lieutenant Tora from the provincial guard of Echigo. I carry a dispatch from my master to you, Excellency.”
“What?” The governor shot up and stretched out his hand eagerly. “Hand it over! Thank heaven he’s all right. What can have happened?”
The dispatch, as Tora knew very well, was from Seimei. They had all put their heads together to concoct a document that would look authentic without revealing the true purpose of Tora’s journey. Seimei had written it out in official style and affixed both the provincial seal and the Sugawara stamp.
The governor unrolled the paper, ran his eyes over it, and sank back down. Looking up at Tora, he said, “Lord Sugawara did not write or dictate this, I think.” Tora glanced at Yamada and cleared his throat. “I am to report back on a prisoner called Yoshimine Taketsuna. He left Echigo for Sadoshima a month ago. We expected to receive confirmation of his safe arrival. Instead there has been no news at all.” Superintendent Yamada cried, “Ah, Taketsuna. Poor fellow.
Yes, he got here, all right. In fact, he was staying with me and my daughter for a while. We became very fond of him even in the short time he was with us. What a pity! What a pity!” Tora turned cold. If his master was dead, what would he do?
What could he tell the master’s lady, left all alone in a cold northern land with a baby son? His fear and grief cut through the thin veneer of protocol he had acquired reluctantly. He took a few strides across the room until he towered over the two elderly men. “What happened?” he demanded harshly. “Why was no one informed?”
Tora’s rude and disrespectful tone made Mutobe flinch, but his companion gave Tora a kindly look. “Ah, I don’t blame you for being upset, my good fellow. You must have been fond of him, too.” Tora did not like that “must have been.” He glared at Yamada, who continued, “I don’t quite understand the ins and outs of it myself, but Taketsuna wasn’t his real name, apparently.
Frankly, I never thought of him as anything but a gentleman, and Masako . . .” He paused and sighed. “Masako is my daughter. She’s disappeared also. We’re at the end of our ropes, the governor and I. Both of our children gone, heaven only knows where. And now here you are, asking about Taketsuna.” He shook his head sadly.
Tora thought respect for his betters was all very well, but there were more important things at stake here. “Tell me what happened to . . . this Taketsuna,” he demanded of Yamada.
“We don’t know. He’s gone,” said Yamada. “In fact, he was the first to disappear.”
Tora blinked. Gone? Perhaps not dead, then. “When, where, and how?” he asked.
“Wait, Yamada,” said the governor. “We do not know how much this young man knows. You have already said too much.”
Tora closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Patience, he reminded himself. He was on his own and he must not make a mistake. Looking at the governor, he said, “Sir-Excellency-
do I take it that you have told Superintendent Yamada about Yoshimine Taketsuna? I thought nobody was to know besides you.”
The governor flushed and looked away. “Yamada is perfectly safe,” he said. “You don’t understand my problems. After my son escaped with the superintendent’s daughter, my people refused to follow orders. Superintendent Yamada was the only one with whom I could discuss the situation. He knows that . . . Taketsuna was sent here to investigate my enemies.” Tora felt more anger building inside him. “You shouldn’t have done that, sir.”
Mutobe blustered weakly, “Who are you to tell me what I can or cannot do, Lieutenant?”
Tora stiffened. “I’m Lord Sugawara’s personal retainer and I’ll gladly die for him and his family. I don’t mind stepping on anyone’s toes, provided I find him. So you’d better tell me what you know, and hope he’s still alive. Your blabbing to everybody about this may have cost him his life. And if it did, I’ll be back.” His hand moved to the grip of his sword.
Mutobe paled. “I assure you . . . I had no occasion to tell until after the incident. And then I only told Yamada. No one else knows.”
“What incident?”
“My son’s escape.” He bit his lip and glanced at Yamada.
“Toshito is innocent and fled to save his life. I had no hand in it but was instantly accused of having helped him, and now-” Tora interrupted, “Yes, never mind. What about my master?”
“Ten days ago, Lord Sugawara was on his way back from Tsukahara. I don’t know if he was successful in solving the case.
He never arrived. Of course I ordered a search, but we found no trace of him. They say he escaped or joined with bandits
or pirates. With the trial just a day away, my son despaired and fled, and after that I could do nothing more. I live here like a prisoner now. The servants and the guards simply ignore my orders. I don’t know if anyone is still looking for your master. I do know they are looking for Toshito and Masako. And that they’ll kill them if they find them.” He sagged and brushed a hand over his eyes. Yamada wept openly.
Tora let out a slow breath. “All right,” he said. “I’ll find him myself. Tell me everything he did up to the time he disappeared.” Mutobe began the tale, with Yamada supplying what he knew. The governor concluded, “That fool Osawa decided to get married and left your master to travel the last leg of the trip alone. Lord Sugawara disappeared on the road between Tsukahara and Mano.”
“Or at that monastery,” said Tora. He was no friend of Buddhist monasteries, remembering only too well a past encounter with murderous monks.
Mutobe protested. “Our monks are very gentle and devout.
No, I know what must have happened. I’m convinced he was caught by Kumo and the others who tried to pin the murder of the prince on my son and me. I think he did solve the case and was on his way back to clear us when they stopped him.”
“If that’s true, then they knew his real identity.”
“Not from me,” said Mutobe sharply.
Tora chewed his lip. It was possible that something else had given the master away. He wished he could retrace his master’s steps, but there was no time. “And you think this fellow Kumo’s behind it?”
Mutobe nodded.
“Does he have soldiers?”
“No. That is not permitted. Kumo’s family lost all its privileges. But he employs many people and is very wealthy. If he wished to rebel, he could raise a small army very quickly.” Tora wrestled with this for a moment. His background had made him regard the privileged classes with suspicion, and his instincts were on the side of men like Kumo who had risen in spite of the opposition they faced. “From what you say, he employs farmworkers, house servants, and the men who work his mine. I don’t see any of those attacking my lord.” Mutobe looked at him bleakly. “Why not? You see the situation I’m in. Kumo controls all of Sadoshima, even my headquarters and staff.”
Tora looked from Mutobe to Yamada. Yamada nodded his head mournfully. No help here, Tora decided, and got to his feet.
“I’ll need a pass to travel without being stopped. There’s an obnoxious police officer in town who’s been threatening me already.” Suddenly it struck him that those threats were completely irrational unless Wada knew or suspected why Tora had come, and that must mean that he knew who Yoshimine Taketsuna really was. The job no longer looked so hopeless after all.
The governor wrote out a safe-conduct, inked his seal, and impressed it on the paper. Handing the pass to Tora, he said, “I doubt it will do you much good, considering my position, but you have my best wishes.” He glanced at Tora’s sword and smiled a little. “Normally my guards would have taken that from you, but it appears that I have become expendable. Be careful and hold on to your sword. You may need it.”
Tora stiffened into a snappy salute. “Thank you, Excellency.
If I come across news of your son or the young lady, I’ll let you know.”
Turtle was huddling in the shade of the tribunal wall and jumped up when he saw Tora stepping through the gate.
“Whereto now, master?” he cried.
Tora blinked at the westering sun. The brightness from the bay was blinding. Hmm,” he said. “It’s almost evening. How about something to drink, Turtle? You know a quiet place where one can have a good cup of wine without being bothered by police? Preferably a place not owned by one of your relatives?”
“Oh, yes, master. Follow me.” Turtle hobbled off, grinning happily.
Tora grinned, too. He liked being called master and he had a plan.
Turtle took him to a noodle shop in one of the alleys behind the market. This time of day, it was already crowded with farmers and market women snatching a quick bowl of soup before returning to their wares for the last sales of the day. Nobody paid any attention to them. There was a line in front of an immensely fat woman with a large iron kettle. She dipped out the soup with a bamboo ladle and took their money. Turtle whispered to her and she jerked her head toward the back.
They went to sit, Turtle at a little distance from Tora, and in a moment she came and brought two bowls of noodle soup, a large flask of wine, and two cups. Tora paid and poured for himself. Then he sampled the soup.
“A cup of wine would go well after sitting in the dust outside provincial headquarters,” Turtle hinted.
“No wine for you,” said Tora, smacking his lips. “Eat! I need your advice.”
Turtle’s eyes opened a little wider. He gobbled the soup and moved closer. “Yes, master?”
Tora flinched away. “Why don’t you take a bath more often?”
“Water wears down a person’s skin, and then sickness gets in. What you should do is rub plenty of oil on yourself to keep your skin fat and thick. Ask me something else.”
“Idiot. What I meant is, you stink so bad you ruin a man’s appetite. I want you to take a bath today. I’ll pay for it.” Turtle’s face fell. “Please don’t make me, master. It’s my life I’m risking,” he whined. “If you like, I’ll stop using the oil.”
“Oh, never mind. I’ll hold my breath. Now, here’s what I want to know. That Lieutenant Wada, do you know where he lives?”
Turtle nodded. “Inside the provincial headquarters.”
“Not good. Too many guards and soldiers about. What does he do at night, after work?”
Turtle’s eyes got bigger. He rubbed his hands and grinned.
“You want to jump him in a dark alley, master? Beat him up good, eh?”
Tora glanced around. Nobody was near them. “No. I want to nab him.”
Turtle’s eyes almost popped out. “Oh, heavens! Oh, dear!
Oh, Buddha! If you do that, you’ll have to kill him or it’ll be both our necks.”
“I may kill him if I have to. Now, how can I get him alone?” Turtle leaned closer and whispered.
He whispered so long that Tora’s face turned red from holding his breath, but he started to smile, and reached for the flask to fill Turtle’s cup.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE MINE
Later Akitada guessed that he had been in his grave for weeks.
Telling the days apart was impossible in a place where there was no daylight. He gauged the passage of time by the visits of the old crone with his food. Once a day she crept in with her lantern, blinding him by shining it on his face, put down full bowls of food and water, took up the empty ones, and left.
Before, he had existed blessedly somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness. With the return of reason came confusion, pain, fear, and panic. The total darkness made him think he was blind until the stench of the stagnant, fetid air brought the realization that he had been buried alive. And that discovery had driven him back into a semiconscious state which resembled dreams. Or in his case, nightmares.
The first time he thought his jailer was part of his hallucina-tions. As he passed in and out of consciousness in this utterly dark place, a distant clinking became the hammering of car-penters, or the clicking of the gigcho ball when hit with its stick, or the tapping of the bamboo ladle against the stone water basin in the shrine garden, each drawn from childhood memories which took on a frightening, mad life of their own in his dreams. Light and shadow also moved through his dreams, for neither consciousness nor sleep could deal with impenetrable darkness.
In the case of the old crone, a strange clanking and creaking preceded her appearance. Then the darkness split into thin lines of gold forming a rectangle which expanded suddenly into blinding brightness. He closed his eyes in fear. A sour smell reached his nose, and the sound of soft scraping his ears. Something clanked down dully beside him and an eerie voice squawked, “Eat.”
He blinked then, cautio
usly, and there, not a foot from his nose, a horrible goblin face hung in the murk made by the flickering light reflected from black stonewalls. Long, shaggy, kinky hair surrounded a moonlike visage dominated by a broad nose, a wide mouth turned down at the corners, and small pale eyes disappearing in folds of orange skin pitted and covered with wens. She was female, he deduced from her voice only, and he was glad when she turned her scrutiny and the light of the lantern away and left him once again to the silence and darkness of his grave.
But the intrusion of the goblin had marked a return to awareness. After a while he overcame his nausea enough to feel around for the bowl. When he lifted it to his face, it stank, but the shaking weakness in his hands and wrists convinced him to eat. It tasted slightly better than it smelled, and it was best not to think about the gristly, slimy bits in the thick soup. He had managed about half of it before he vomited and fell back to doze off again.
He slept a lot. Lack of food or his injuries were responsible for that, and he was grateful for the oblivion because his waking moments were filled with terror. He was unbearably hot-
feverish?-and his grave was indescribably filthy. The stench of urine and excrement mingled with the sour smell of vomit and sweat. Why did they bother to feed him?
Why did he bother to eat? Yet after each visit, he would raise himself on an elbow and make another effort. In time he managed to keep down some of the food. In time he slept less and was forced to take notice of his body, which remained stubbornly alive, adding periodically to the filth around him and protesting against each movement with sharp pain.
He charted the pain as if his body were unknown territory and he were taking gradual possession of it. Head and neck at first seemed the worst, especially the back of his head. He managed to turn it enough to avoid contact between the sorest area and the hard stone. But twisting his neck brought on new, lesser, but persistent pains. The other center of agony was his right leg. He could not bend it, and a steady dull ache radiated from hip to knee and from knee to ankle even when he was not moving it. The rest was uncomfortable but did not take his breath away at every move. As for his skin, apart from being covered with sweat, almost every part of him was painful to the touch, and there was an itching scab on his forehead.
