by I. J. Parker
“The poor man’s henpecked,” Yoko said with a giggle. “By his wife and by his captain.”
“Gossip can hurt a policeman’s career. I don’t have such worries.” Tora emptied his cup and extended it.
“I’m glad.” She poured and raised the cup to her lips before passing it to him.
“Ah,” he said, his eyes on her moist lips. “Lucky cup.”
A short silence fell as they gazed deeply into each other’s eyes. She reached across to touch his cheek. “I like you. I want you to come back, but today’s not a good day.”
Tora set down the wine untasted. “Do you want me to leave?”
“In a little. I’m truly sorry, Tora.”
She looked sorry, and Tora was satisfied she had given the gossips cause for their name-calling. But he had a soft spot for sluts and was by no means averse to returning another day. So he nodded and said, “I’d better ask the rest of my questions quickly. What about the Mitsui children?”
She frowned. “I’ve never seen the daughter. The son comes sometimes to see the father. His stepmother cleans other people’s houses when she’s not dressing those dolls. They’re poor. You’d think his children would help out.”
“My thought exactly. Do you have children?”
She shook her head. “No.” She sounded sad and a little angry.
“I’m sorry. But you’re still young.”
She said bitterly, “I’m young, but my husband is old. Like Mrs. Mitsui, I’m the second wife. My husband has grown children and doesn’t care much for making the wind and the rain.”
This left Tora speechless. He quickly drank down the wine and sighed.
She tossed her head. “Never mind. At least my husband doesn’t beat me and make me work for others.” She looked down at her pretty dress and smoothed it over her thighs.
Tora got up. “I bet you make your husband happy,” he said awkwardly.
She was all smiles again. “I get lonely sometimes. Promise you’ll come back, Tora?”
Tora hesitated, then nodded,
11
A CHILD’S CRY IN THE NIGHT
“Are we almost done, Mori?” Akitada closed another document box and rubbed his tired eyes.
“Only one more,” said the old clerk. “It could wait till tomorrow.”
“No. Give it here.” With a sigh, Akitada delved into another box of tax-grain accounts for the various districts of Chikuzen. Sometime later a scratching at the door interrupted him. Mori shuffled over, opened the door a crack and whispered, “What do you want?”
Koji, newly assigned as houseboy in hopes that he would find it less confusing than gate guard duty or cleaning out the stables, stammered, “Zorry, Master Mori. Very zorry to make a disturbance. Knowin’ as I am that it’s forbidden to come scratchin’ at this door, mornin’ or night. Not even to ask questions is allowed. But I’m not askin’. And it’s not night yet.”
“Spit it out,” hissed Mori. “What do you want?”
“Nothin’, Master Mori. I’m not askin’ questions.”
“Come in, Koji,” Akitada interrupted this hopeless exchange.
Mori opened the door a little wider. Koji stepped in, grinned widely, and bowed. “How you doin’ today, governor zir?”
Mori muttered, “Kneel!” and kicked Koji’s ankle.
Koji turned in astonishment. “What you kick me for?”
Akitada asked, “What brings you here, Koji?”
Koji bobbed another bow. “Very zorry about disturbin’ you, zir, but zomeone’s come. Very important man.”
Mori gasped and ran out.
“Did he say who he is?”
“Yes, he’s the mayor, beggin’ pardon.”
“Thank you, Koji. I think Mori has gone to bring him in. You may return to your duties.”
Koji grinned more widely, sketched a salute he must have copied from the gate guards, and dashed out.
Mori returned, bringing with him Mayor Nakamura.
“Very happy to find you in, Excellency.” The mayor was resplendent in blue silk, fastened across his belly with a brocade sash. “I was passing through Minami and decided to give myself the pleasure of calling on you myself.”
Akitada rose to his feet. “You are honoring me, Mayor. Please sit down. Some wine?”
“No, no. I must dash on, and I see you’re busy. I just stopped by to extend my invitation to a little entertainment I shall arrange to welcome your Excellency to Chikuzen. Since you couldn’t stop when you first arrived, I hope to correct the situation. Would tomorrow night be convenient?”
Akitada heard the implied complaint. He did not relish formal banquets, but they were part and parcel of public administration, and clearly his high-handed refusal to dine with the local dignitaries had upset them. He said, “How very kind. It would suit me perfectly. I regret deeply my rushed arrival the other day. The late hour and urgent state of affairs made it necessary. You may have heard about the chaotic situation I found?”
The mayor relaxed a little and glanced about. “Yes, I heard. Shocking! Thieves stripped your quarters? I did notice the lack of amenities. You must let me know what is needed and it shall be supplied.”
Akitada disliked accepting gifts which might obligate him. “Thank you for the generous offer, but we have already recovered most of the furniture. We will manage quite well for the time being.”
The mayor studied the room again and shook his head. “Well, I’ll look forward to receiving you tomorrow then.” He bowed.
When the mayor had left, Akitada returned to his work. But the visit had broken his concentration. The invitation was to make up for a missed meeting between himself and the Hakata notables, and he doubted the mayor had merely been passing by on another errand. No, the man had wanted to see for himself how he was coping, and he had taken pleasure in expressing his disapproval of the new governor’s behavior.
When it was fully dark, Koji returned to announce that dinner was ready.
Akitada closed the document box and said, “I’ll eat in my rooms, Koji. Thank you, Mori. We’ll continue tomorrow.”
He was walking down the dark passage toward his quarters, when a stranger suddenly stepped from one of the rooms. Akitada jumped back, his heart in his throat. He reached for the sword he was not wearing. Angry at himself and the stranger who had somehow managed to get into the building, he demanded, “Who are you? What do you want?”
The intruder made a hissing sound, then said in Saburo’s voice, “I do beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Akitada’s relief was instant, but irritation followed, though he was mainly angry at himself. “What the devil are you doing with a beard, Saburo?”
“My disguise, sir. I thought it best if people don’t recognize me as your retainer.”
“Hmm. Yes. I see your point. Come into my room so I can get a better look at you.”
An oil lamp lit his study, making it almost cozy. He had arranged his trunk, his books, his sword stand and sword, and his writing box along the bare walls and on the few pieces of furniture. Now he took up the oil lamp to study Saburo’s appearance.
If Saburo had not spoken earlier, Akitada would still not have recognized him. A close-trimmed beard and mustache hid the worst scars of his lower face completely. The one damaged eye still had a cast, but this gave him merely a somewhat rakish appearance.
“I’m stunned,” he said. “Saburo, you’re quite handsome.”
The compliment astonished Saburo to such an extent that his eye started rolling again. “H-handsome, sir?” he asked, flushing.
“Have you looked in a mirror?”
“Why, yes. I had to, to glue on all this hair.”
“Can you control your eye the way you did before?”
“A little. I’ve been practicing.”
Akitada smiled. “Well,” he said, “the disguise is perfect. By the time my four years here are up, nobody in the capital will recognize poor Saburo.”
Saburo look
ed down. “Don’t joke, sir.”
“I’m not joking. You should consider growing that beard and mustache, but at the moment it’s better if you remain two different men.”
“Of course. I came to tell you I’m off to Hakata. To check on Hayashi. Anything else you’d like me to take a look at?”
“Well, the harbor. I suspect there are smugglers. And I’m interested in the shop of the merchant Feng. He employs a big brute with a broken nose and two fingers missing on his right hand. He has the look of a thug and made me wonder what sort of business Feng is engaged in.”
*
Saburo decided to check out Feng’s store first. It was not quite dark yet, and he wanted a good look at the premises from the outside. He saw immediately that they favored a clandestine visit. There were no living quarters for the owner above the store. Of course, this did not eliminate the possibility of an employee sleeping there at night. And such an amount of costly merchandise would require very careful locking-up at night.
As he strolled into the salesroom, a young shop attendant rushed forward to wait on him. Saburo asked about mirrors. Shown several very elegant items well beyond his means, he picked the best, a bright silver mirror, and checked the looks of his beard and mustache, going so far as to carry it to the door to admire his appearance by daylight.
He was secretly amazed and excited by the change the facial hair made. The horrible, deep and disfiguring scars around his mouth and left cheek were completely hidden. What still showed was nearly unnoticeable under the make-up paste Lady Sugawara had shown him how to mix. Only his left eye still had the disturbing cast in it, and it rolled uncontrollably unless he concentrated really hard. But he was no longer an ogre.
His hand trembled with emotion as he returned the mirror to the shop attendant and left. It took a while before he was calm enough to concentrate on his job.
The Hayashi house was unremarkable except for its large size. Saburo walked all around the property, noting possible means of ingress, then located a small restaurant a few houses away but within sight of Hayashi’s gate. There he took a seat outside and ordered a bowl of soup. The sun was setting, and people were going home from work. At the Hayashi house, the small gate in the wall opened, and a middle-aged woman walked out, carrying a small bundle in one hand. Saburo decided she was probably Suyin, the cleaning woman.
A short while later, a familiar figure came down the street. The portly gentleman in a green silk robe and neat black cap walked up to the Hayashi gate and announced himself. He was admitted.
Saburo’s memory was excellent. This was the shrine priest Kuroda. There was, of course, nothing suspicious about his visit to the chief of the merchants’ guild. Perhaps he was collecting contributions for his shrine.
But Saburo had barely time to consider this when two porters deposited a sedan chair at the gate. Another familiar figure emerged: the stocky person of Merchant Feng with his pointed chin beard, wearing his Chinese robe, narrow black silk pants, and the peculiar low, square hat worn by Chinese men of means or position. Feng paid the porters and also went through the gate.
Saburo pursed his lips. This was beginning to look like a meeting. He wondered who else would show up. For a very long time, nothing happened. Saburo was forced to pay for another bowl of soup. He had barely tasted this, when other men began to arrive and enter the Hayashi compound. He did not know any of them, but by their ages, clothes, and demeanor they appeared to be merchants or shopkeepers. This was then a regular meeting of the guild members. To prove the matter, the shrine priest soon emerged and walked off.
By then, the sun had set, and dusk was rapidly turning into night. Saburo left his soup partially eaten and walked to the harbor. A nearly full moon shone on a sea like mottled silver. The dark land and the black outlines of distant islands seemed to float upon the water. Now and then a cloud obscured the moon, but along the harbor, lanterns and torches attached to walls of buildings shed yellow pools of light. More lanterns suspended on the boats tied up on shore cast dancing beams across the landing as they rocked with the tide. Farther out in the bay, larger ships were at anchor, and there, too, lights gleamed and disappeared, then gleamed again with the motion of the waves. It was almost like looking at a reflection of the stars, Saburo thought. The bay was beautiful even at night.
Saburo had not shared his master’s uneasiness about Kyushu, but he had also been well aware of a sense of lurking danger. Perhaps nerves were more refined among the nobility. Or else it was the fact that his master had a lot to lose. He had a family he clearly adored and who adored him. Saburo had no such attachments. He could not recall a time when he had ever been afraid of death.
The torture he had suffered at the hands of the enemy he had accepted as well deserved for having been careless. A spy must never be careless. And whatever had happened to his mind later as the result of having his face permanently and cruelly altered with a sharp knife had not instilled fear in him either. But it had done other things to him that he was only dimly aware of. People’s disgust when they looked at him had filled him with anger and disdain for his fellow man. This was doubly true for the women he had met.
Beside the anger there was something else, a weakness he hated to acknowledge. He longed for the sort of human closeness his master had with his family. Tora had it also, and even clumsy, fat Genba had found it.
Saburo would never have it, but he was not afraid.
As he explored the waterfront, Saburo noticed two men, perhaps sailors, meeting with another man beside one of the docked ships. There was a brief argument, then money changed hands and disappeared into the shirt of one of the sailors. Both walked away, heading into town while the other man climbed back on board.
He thought this a promising beginning and followed the sailors. They entered a large wine shop. By the light from lanterns, Saburo saw they were not sailors but thugs, probably Chinese, or of Chinese descent. He deduced this from their tall, muscular build and their flat, broad faces. They wore colorful and new-looking pants and jackets and leather boots on their feet, but they were scum.
Well-paid scum with neatly trimmed hair and beards.
Saburo touched his own facial hair. It itched quite badly, but he didn’t dare scratch for fear of losing patches of his painfully glued and trimmed beard. He had confiscated the hair from the stable boy’s head, and hoped he did not have to maintain his disguise for very long.
The two thugs entered a large wine shop with the impressive name The Dragon’s Lair. Inside, they joined three others, similar types but Japanese.
Saburo was still standing inside the door when the biggest of the Chinese looked up and their eyes met. Saburo had observed before that people could sometimes feel someone staring at them. He let his eyes slide on to another man and so around the room. A waiter appeared by his side, and he sat down and ordered a flask of wine.
Sometime later, he cast another cautious glance at the group and saw the big Chinese reaching for a wine flask. Two of the fingers on his right hand were missing.
It could be coincidence, but Saburo recalled his master’s description of the man in Feng’s shop. He debated whether to stay where he was and incur further expenses for wine, or go outside to hide in some doorway and wait for the big Chinese to come out.
The door opened again, and two children came in, a slight girl and a much younger boy. They were poorly dressed and each carried a birdcage. Passing among the customers, they were offering to sell their songbirds. When they reached the five toughs, a discussion took place, accompanied by raucous laughter. The girl shook her head violently and retreated, pulling the boy with her. One of the men reached for her, causing the boy to shout something at him. The waiter ran over and pointed the children to the door. When the girl did not move quickly enough, the waiter gave her a rough push that made her fall down and drop her cage. A wild fluttering and twittering came from the cage.
Saburo half rose, cursing the incident, which escalated before his eyes when the bo
y kicked the waiter’s shin and got a loud slap.
The girl scrambled up, snatched the cage, grasped the little boy’s arm, and pulled him away. The outraged waiter followed them to the door, shouting after them.
Saburo subsided in his seat and decided not to leave a tip.
Two poor children.
Trying to earn a few coppers by selling birds.
The girl had not been much older than twelve, he thought, and the boy perhaps nine. He wondered what sort of life they led at home. Why did their parents send them out at night into dangerous places to sell their birds?
In the corner, the Chinese suddenly burst into laughter again. Still grinning, they got up, tossed some coins to the waiter, and walked out.
Saburo would have followed in any case, but there was something troubling about their sudden departure after the two children. He paid a few coppers for his wine and went out into the street.
It was still busy, with lanterns bobbing in the slight breeze from the water and men searching for wine, women, or games. At the end of the street, three of the thugs headed toward the dense warren of streets beyond the wine shops and brothels. They were walking fast. Two of them had disappeared. So had the children. The three abruptly turned a corner.
Saburo sped up to the corner and saw a dark tunnel between the walls of two-story houses. The alley was so narrow not even the fitful moonlight penetrated. There was no sign of the Chinese, but he heard a sudden laugh up ahead, and then a shout. Then sounds of running footsteps receded.
Saburo wished he had dressed for spying. Not only were those clothes black and made for climbing and scaling roofs, but they had a series of clever pockets holding assorted weapons of his former trade. He bent to touch the thin blade he carried in his right boot and plunged into the darkness.
When his eyes adjusted, he knew he was in a poor quarter of tenements for sailors and porters. He quickly became disoriented by the way the alley turned this way and that. Dead ends and switchbacks filled with heaps of refuse or discarded building materials slowed him down. Finally he stopped and listened.
