by I. J. Parker
Akitada stood, his sword loose in his hand, its point downward. He thought of the difference between them: Kumo rested and fully armed, both his body and head protected by that extraordinary suit of armor, with a superb blade on his sword— he, in Tora’s blue robe and pants, both now blood-spattered, neither his head nor his body protected, exhausted, favoring an injured leg, and fighting with an ordinary sword borrowed from Tora. He put these thoughts aside quickly in the knowledge that, nevertheless, he would not, could not lose this fight. He knew nothing of Kumo’s swordsmanship, though his men had been trained if inexperienced, but that did not matter. Kumo would die, here, and by his hand.
But Kumo said a strange thing, and Akitada’s confidence fled “Come on and fight,” Kumo said. “You enjoy killing. I watched you and I can see it in your eyes now.”
Akitada lowered his sword and stepped back; he wanted to deny the charge but knew that there was truth in it and that the truth was profoundly disturbing. He tried in vain to put it from his mind.
Kumo used this moment of weakness to attack. Akitada parried instinctively. Then their blades met again and again, sharply, steel against steel, each parry a painful tremor in Akitada’s arm, and Akitada realized that Kumo’s way of fighting was done by rote, that he had memorized moves and practiced them, but that, like his men, he had never fought a real opponent. And as he became aware of this, he also recognized the fear in Kumo’s eyes. Kumo was stronger and quicker than he was, but his clumsy handling of his sword made his end certain and quick.
Akitada lunged for Kumo’s wrist, pierced his sword guard, and twisted sharply. Kumo cried out, releasing his grip, and Akitada flung Kumo’s sword in a wide arc through the air. It struck point down in the dirt, the golden hilt vibrating in the sun.
Their eyes met. This was the moment for Kumo to surrender, and Akitada was so certain he would that he lowered his sword. But the man surprised him by snatching a short sword from his sash. When he attacked, Akitada’s long sword came up. Kumo met its point below his right arm where neither shoulder guard nor body armor protected him. It was one of the few places an experienced fighter aimed for when confronted by a fully armed enemy, but there had been no design in Akitada’s action. He felt the impact along the blade of his sword, the brief halt as the point met bone, then heard the bone part, and the blade plunged deeply into Kumo’s body.
When Akitada stepped back, bringing the sword with him, Kumo stood swaying, a look of surprise on his face. Then the short sword fell from his hand, he opened his mouth as if to speak, but blood poured forth and ran down his beautiful armor. His knees buckled and he sank slowly to the ground.
Akitada looked from his dead enemy to the bodies of men and horses and at the dying Haseo tended by Tora. The scene blurred, and he sat down, bending his head in exhaustion and relief.
It was not yet midday.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FUGUFISH
When Akitada opened his eyes, he looked again at the slain Kumo. The golden helmet had fallen off, and his face looked younger in death. The eyes were closed and the lips had relaxed as if he had merely fallen asleep. Akitada got up to make certain he was dead and disturbed the first fly on the bloody armor. Akitada felt neither triumph nor regret, only immeasurable exhaustion.
Staying on his feet took all the strength he could muster. He stumbled over to where Tora sat with Haseo. Tora had fashioned some sort of pad for Haseo’s belly wound. When Akitada gave him a questioning look, he shook his head. Belly wounds were fatal. Always. They were also agonizingly painful. Haseo’s eyes were closed, his lips compressed.
Akitada sat down on his other side. “How are you, my friend?” He took the big man’s callused hand in his.
Haseo’s eyes flicked open. He managed a smile. Akitada would always remember Haseo smiling. “A great fight,” Haseo murmured. He paused and added, almost inaudibly, “Wonderful!”
Akitada felt helpless. “Yes,” he said, glancing around with rising sickness at the scattered bodies and noticing for the first time that some of the peasants were timidly peering around corners and from windows. Life would go on.
But not for Haseo.
Tora said to Haseo, “I saw you fighting two of the bastards at the same time. People say it can’t be done, but you did it. I meant to ask you to teach me.”
Haseo smiled. “Thanks. You’ll learn. You’re not bad yourself.”
Akitada had been too hard-pressed to see him fight, but he remembered how Haseo had wished for a sword on the mountain and later longed for Tora’s weapon, and he wondered about his background. “I never asked your name,” he said. There was a long pause, and he repeated his question. “What is your family name, Haseo?”
Haseo unclenched his bloody hand long enough to make a dismissive gesture. “Gone. Taken away. Sentence.”
So they had not only sentenced him to exile, but stripped his family of their ancestral name. “What was it?” Akitada persisted.
At first it seemed that Haseo would not answer. But then he whispered, “Utsunomiya.”
“Utsunomiya. I’ll find your family and try to clear your name. Your sons will want to know of your courage.”
Haseo opened his eyes then and looked at him. “It is too much to ask,” he whispered.
Akitada shook his head. “Not among friends.” He was about to ask more questions but there were shouts in the distance. Someone was coming. Tora jumped up and ran to the road, while Akitada struggled to his feet and seized his sword. What now? More of Kumo’s soldiers? He had no strength left.
But Tora, shading his eyes, was looking toward the south. He waved to Akitada to come. The distance suddenly seemed very great; Akitada shuffled like an old man, with small uncertain steps.
“It’s the governor, I think,” said Tora when Akitada reached him. Akitada shaded his own eyes. Yes, he could make out the banner flying in front of the cortege. “I thought he’d lost his power,” Tora remarked in a tone of surprise. “Wonder how he got anyone to come with him.”
They were on foot, probably some forty men, foot soldiers with halberds and bearers carrying the governor’s sedan chair. And now that they approached a town, they began to chant the traditional warning, “Make way for His Excellency, the governor! Make way!” Slowly the local people gathered by the roadside and knelt as the banner and sedan chair passed them.
The soldiers’ shouts became more urgent when neither Tora nor Akitada would step aside. Then they caught sight of the bodies of men and horses and lowered their lances.
Akitada raised his hand. “Halt! We have business with His Excellency.”
The column faltered and stopped. The woven curtain of the sedan chair parted and Mutobe stuck out his head.
“What’s going on?” he shouted. “What do these people want?”
“Governor?” Akitada started toward the sedan chair, but a small forest of sharp halberds immediately barred his way.
“Who are you?” asked Mutobe.
“Sugawara.”
Mutobe’s jaw dropped. “Good heavens!” Then he cried, “Put me down! Put me down, you fools.” The sedan chair was lowered and opened. Mutobe climbed out and came to Akitada with outstretched hands. The halberds parted and the soldiers stepped back. Mutobe’s steps faltered. “Is that really you, Sugawara?” he asked uncertainly. “All that blood. Are you hurt?” Belatedly his eyes fell on the carcass of a dead horse, then on human bodies. “What has happened here?” he asked, his eyes wide and his voice hoarse.
“Kumo caught up with us. May I introduce Lieutenant Tora? If he had not found me in time, we would not be speaking to each other now.”
Mutobe looked at Tora, turned a little green at the amount of gore on Tora, and nodded. “Yes. We met. Are you telling me that you two killed all these men?” His eyes counted. “Four mounted soldiers? All by yourselves?”
“No, there were three of us. My friend was wounded. He is dying.” Akitada led the way to the farmyard, where Mutobe counted more bodies, pausin
g in astonishment beside the corpse of the late high constable.
“It’s Kumo,” he said, picking up the golden helmet. “You killed Kumo. Wonderful! It’s a miracle. Finally we are free of the monster. Oh, we will celebrate this day!” He clapped his hands together like a small child.
Akitada did not feel like celebrating. He knelt beside Haseo. Mutobe came to lean over him. “Who is he?”
“Utsunomiya Haseo. My friend.”
“Don’t know him. How did you meet?”
“He was a prisoner as I was. In Kumo’s mine.”
“Oh, a convict. He looks dead.”
Akitada was holding Haseo’s hand, willing him to open his eyes, to smile. Tora joined them. He reached down and felt Haseo’s neck. “Gone,” he said bluntly. “Better this way.”
“Yes,” said Akitada dismally, tears blurring his eyes. “But I had so much to ask him still.”
“Well.” Mutobe straightened up and looked about. “The locals will take care of him and the others. Cheer up. He’s only a convict. Would have been executed anyway for escaping.”
Akitada felt like striking the man. Even if it had been some other convict and not Haseo, he would have flared up in righteous anger. Mutobe had not confronted Kumo to stop the abuse of prisoners and mine workers. He had been engaged in a miserable private struggle to solidify his and his son’s authority against the increasingly powerful high constable. But Akitada was too exhausted to be able to say more than, “No. He will return with us for an honorable burial in Mano. Whatever he was, he fought bravely in an honorable cause.”
Mutobe was distracted. “Oh, very well. Whatever. But where are the ladies?”
“The ladies?” Akitada put Haseo’s hand back on his chest and got to his feet. He saw now that they had been joined by two other men. One was Yamada, looking shocked and anxious, the other the governor’s son. “Toshito?” Akitada gasped. “What are you doing here? I thought you were with Kumo.”
“With Kumo?” Yamada and his son-in-law cried in unison.
“Why would my son be with Kumo?” the governor asked. “He ran most of the way from Ribata’s hermitage to tell me of your escape and to ask me to bring help in case Kumo came after you. He took quite a risk. I’m sorry we did not get here sooner, but my men were reluctant to obey me.”
Akitada said quickly, “Never mind. I’m grateful you’re here.” He glanced toward the governor’s soldiers. An elderly officer was directing his men to collect the bodies and clear the road of dead horses. Mutobe must have had an impossible task. It was a miracle he had appeared with such numbers. And Akitada had been wrong about Toshito and owed the obnoxious fellow an apology. There were more important matters in life than a moment’s humility. Bowing to the governor’s son, he said awkwardly, “I beg your pardon for my mistake, Toshito. I thought when you left last night . . . Ribata is close to Kumo’s family and you were very hostile. When we woke up and saw Kumo and his men coming, there seemed to be only one explanation.”
“Damn you to hell!” Toshito spat. “How dare you call me a traitor? You ran like the coward you are, leaving two helpless women to the attentions of . . . soldiers, low creatures without principle.” He waved at the bodies which still lay about the courtyard and had attracted a small crowd of jabbering villagers.
Akitada bit his lip and said again, “I am sorry. It was a mistake.”
Mutobe stepped between them. “Toshito,” he said sharply, “you forget yourself. Lord Sugawara is under imperial orders and has done us a great service. Apologize.”
His son compressed his lips and glared.
Yamada asked, “Do you really think they hurt the women?”
Suddenly Akitada had had enough. He told Mutobe coldly, “Tell your son to take the sedan chair and some of the men to bring the ladies here. Meanwhile, there are other matters to discuss. Inside. It is hot out here and stinks of blood.”
The farmer, his wife, and several female relatives or maids prostrated themselves when they entered the house. Mutobe demanded use of their main room, and a place for them to wash themselves. Akitada was grateful for the last, for the clothes he had borrowed from Tora were stiff with drying blood, and his skin and scalp itched under layers of sweat and filth.
One of the women brought a large bowl of water and hemp cloth for drying, but he asked for the well. There he stripped and poured bucket after bucket of clean water over himself, scrubbing his face, beard, hair, and body until he felt clean again. Someone brought him a silk robe—one of the governor’s, to judge by its quality and size—and he ran his fingers through his hair and twisted it up into a topknot. When he went back into the house, Mutobe and Yamada both looked relieved at his changed appearance.
“Have some of this wine,” offered Mutobe. “It is only ordinary, but it will give you some strength.”
Strength. Yes, he could use that. The cold water had temporarily dispelled his exhaustion, but now he sank down on the wooden planks of the farmer’s best room and gulped the rough wine gratefully.
Yamada and Mutobe watched him expectantly, too polite to burst into excited questions, but clearly hopeful that the wine would loosen his tongue.
Akitada’s first thought was Haseo. “What has been done about my friend’s body?”
“He will be taken back to Mano,” said Mutobe quickly. “My men are building a stretcher. I hope that is satisfactory?”
Akitada nodded. “Where is Tora?”
“Your lieutenant suddenly recalled having left some people behind. He took horses to get them.”
Akitada had forgotten the wretched Wada and the strange little man with the crippled leg. “One of the men he left behind is the police official Wada,” he told the governor. “I assume you know him?”
Mutobe made a face. “Er. Yes. Not perhaps what one could wish. There have been some complaints.”
“You have, of course, investigated them?” Akitada asked.
Mutobe flushed. “Why? Even if they proved true, what would you have me do about it?”
Akitada snapped, “Well, he could receive a reprimand and warning. Or he could be arrested and tried and sent to jail. Or he could be sent back to the capital as unsuitable. I gather you took none of these options. Wada was working for Kumo when he waylaid me. He had me beaten half to death by his constables, and when Kumo interfered he took me to a gold mine where I was left to die.”
The two men stared at him.
“A gold mine?” asked Mutobe.
“My mistake. I meant to say silver mine.”
“Terrible,” cried Yamada. “My dear Taketsuna, I wish I had known. Oh, dear! Forgive me. Lord Sugawara, I mean. You will have to do something about that man, Governor.”
Mutobe stiffened his back. “Certainly. I will have him arrested immediately. I had no idea. Up until now there were just a few concerns about his rough treatment of criminals and vagrants or prostitutes. . . .” Seeing Akitada’s expression, he flushed again. “Well. I tried to discipline him, but Kumo stepped in to stop me. Then this business with Toshito happened.” He faltered miserably. An uncomfortable silence fell. Mutobe asked diffidently, “I trust we can settle my son’s affairs once and for all now, my lord? It was suicide, not murder?”
Akitada did not think much of the way Mutobe had carried out his duties, but there were extenuating circumstances. At least now that his son’s name would be cleared, the man should have the time to tend to business, and Akitada needed his cooperation. He started to explain Okisada’s death when he had second thoughts.
From what everyone had said about fugu poison, such a death was painful. Would a spoiled prince like Okisada really choose this method to end his life? Especially when his reason was to avoid the pain of a stomach disorder? How ill had Okisada really been? He had been well enough to travel and attend the gathering at Professor Sakamoto’s house. And had not his fellow conspirators, with the exception of the alcoholic professor, been rather complacent about his death and the failure of their enterprise? Only the pr
ofessor had been truly upset. And perhaps Shunsei. The monk’s faith in his beloved’s achieving Buddhahood might have overcome his grief. But Kumo, Taira, and the physician had only been concerned with getting young Mutobe convicted.
And then there were Kumo’s strange final words. Something about making a sacrifice for his emperor.
Mutobe cleared his throat. “May I ask, my lord, what it is that you found out?”
Akitada was spared an answer. From outside came the sound of voices, and then the door flew open and revealed one of Mutobe’s men trying to bar Tora’s way.
“Let him in!” Akitada snapped.
Mutobe gave him a reproachful glance and nodded to his guard. The small incident reminded Akitada of his awkward position. He no longer had his imperial orders and had to depend on Mutobe’s cooperation.
Tora looked slightly shaken. He bowed to them, then addressed Akitada. “I went back for Turtle and that swine Wada.”
Akitada nodded. “I hope you tied up Wada. He is under arrest.”
Tora shook his head. “He’s dead, sir.”
Akitada gave him a sharp look. “How?”
Tora hesitated. “Er, it wasn’t me, sir. I found him dead when I got there, sir. Turtle claims the soldiers did it.”
“Nonsense! We would have seen them stop. Kumo was in such a hurry to catch up with us that he did not bother to slow down.” Akitada frowned. And that was strange. Wada must have been dead already or unconscious, or he would surely have cried out to Kumo. Getting to his feet, he said, “Excuse me, gentlemen. I think I’ll have a word with my lieutenant’s servant. Come, Tora.”
Outside, he found a grinning and whistling Turtle holding the reins of the three horses. One of them had the corpse of Wada slung over its saddle. Blood dripped slowly into the dust. Akitada lifted the dead man’s head and saw that his throat had been slit. It did not look like a sword wound, and his eyes went to the servant’s waist. There was a bulge under his jacket.
