by I. J. Parker
With a sigh, he crept up to the door. It was heavy and well-made. The lock looked massive and well-oiled. What he was about to do was dangerous, but he had no other options. Saburo felt through the various pouches of his clever garments and extracted a small set of metal hooks and slides. With these, he began to work on the lock mechanism, cringing at every scrape and click. It was a mechanism foreign to him, so it took trial and error before he finally heard something move. Tucking his implements away, he used his fingertips to move the left panel of the door very slightly. To his relief, the person who had installed such a fine and complicated lock had also oiled the hinges on the door. The heavy panel moved softly and silently.
Saburo opened the door only a little and put his good eye to the crack. He saw an empty corridor and could hear faint voices. There was some light, but it came from under a closed door. He was about to risk opening his door a little more when the other one was flung wide, spilling light into the corridor as someone came from the room.
Saburo’s instinct was to run, but something made him hesitate. The person who had stepped into the dark corridor also paused. His silhouette was outlined against the bright rectangle beyond. He was a man, heavyset, and dressed in the Chinese fashion. When he turned his head, Saburo saw he had a small chin beard.
Master Feng, himself.
Feng said to someone in the room, “You’re getting greedy. Let’s hope you haven’t caused trouble. Don’t forget what may happen then.” Then he switched to Chinese, which Saburo did not understand.
It probably meant there were at least two other people inside. And Saburo’s time was running out, because now Feng turned and came toward the backdoor.
There was no time to scale the wall, so Saburo dashed behind some of the boxes, and cowered there, saying a quick prayer.
Feng reached the door and found it open. He cursed in his own tongue and called out to the others. Two people joined him, one very tall and bulky, the other shorter and slender.
Fingers and the clerk.
An argument ensued. The clerk at some point protested, “It wasn’t me. I came in through the front. Perhaps you didn’t close it properly, Master.”
Another curse and the sound of a slap. Then Feng started across the yard toward the small gate in the wall. The clerk, holding his cheek, ran to open the gate, bowed deeply, then closed it behind Feng, relocking it carefully.
He trudged back to the store, muttering, went inside, and slammed the backdoors. Saburo heard the lock click into place and grinned.
He had been lucky. Better not test that luck again tonight. He waited until all was still, then scaled the wall and went home.
21
THE TRAP
Tora took an unobtrusive glance at the man lounging against the door jamb. He wore a workman’s rough clothes, and his hair was tied up in a colorful piece of cloth twisted into a rope. He was big, with coarse, scarred features and fists the size of sledge hammers.
A thug, Tora thought, and Chinese, so perhaps this was the man his master had encountered in Feng’s store. He sidled across the room, pretending interest in a loud argument that had broken out between a man and one of the clerks, and risked another glance. The thug’s attention was on Tora’s master and his interest in a ledger the clerk was holding up for his perusal. Both of the thug’s hands were in sight. None of his fingers was missing.
Nevertheless.
Tora turned and strolled toward the door as if he had become tired of the harbor office and was taking a look at the ships instead. The thug saw him coming and ducked out.
Well, this promised to be an interesting quarry after all. Tora intended to find out why he was watching them and who had told him to do so.
The man was big enough to be easily seen above the smaller people milling around. Besides, the colorful cloth twisted about his head waved like a flag. He walked with a lumbering gait, looking back only once.
Very odd. It was broad daylight, and the man knew he was being followed. Let him try to run. Tora felt quite confident he would catch him. The thug carried too much weight in those broad shoulders and chest.
They strolled into the Chinese quarter. Tora grew somewhat less confident: if he had to tackle the man, his fellow countrymen might take exception and jump to his rescue. But his quarry left the Chinese quarter behind and made for a warehouse district. Here he slowed down as if he were looking for a specific place. Tora decided it was time and speeded up.
The other man glanced over his shoulder again and ran through an open gate, Tora at his heels.
They were in a wide service yard of some sort. As Tora had known, the man was hardly fleet of foot. He made for one of the low buildings, but Tora snatched at the back of shirt, growling, “Hold it. I want a word.”
The man tore himself free and shouted something in Chinese as he ducked into the building.
Tora rushed after him.
After the bright sunlight, the darkness inside blinded him, and he slid to a halt. At that moment, a heavy blow struck the back of his head and sent him falling forward. He passed out before he hit the floor.
*
Pain. And voices. Dizziness. Nausea.
A strange smell. Of dirt and something else.
Never mind. Let it go. Blessed darkness.
The voices returned and with them the pain and the nausea.
Maybe he was having a dream. A nightmare.
Serves the bastard right. He’ll never interfere with me again.
More pain. A laugh.
This pain was fresh, sharp, and lasting. In his side. He wanted to scream but no sound came. Vomit rose to his mouth. He swallowed it down.
What’s next?
The convict ship. They can lose him on the way, if you want.
I want. But I’ll have a bit of fun first. Laughter.
Two people. The voices were familiar. Well, not quite. It nagged at him, but his head felt like a sponge, and his side burned with every breath.
A very bad dream!
Do what you want, but don’t mark him up too badly. He’s as good as dead.
Who was that?
Tora’s eyes would not open. Had he become blind? Feet shuffled about on the floor. Clothes rustled. Then more pain. A leather strap. He screamed. Trying to twist away, he realized his arms were twisted behind his back, his wrists tied. Then he passed out.
When he came to next, he knew enough by now not to make a sound. Even breathing hurt. He lay still and slipped into semi-consciousness.
But this did not last. He pulled at his bonds. All it got him was new agony. He gasped and almost passed out again. They had kicked and beaten him. One of his ribs must be broken.
Watch out! He’s coming around!
This time he knew the voice: Hiroshi!
A hand seized Tora’s topknot and jerked his head up. He moaned and opened his eyes. He saw a fuzzy scene of a lit lantern and two shadowy figures.
“You’ll be sorry for this, Hiroshi,” he gasped.
A moment’s silence, and then a vicious slap that rattled Tora’s teeth and made his mouth bleed.
Hiroshi’s face sneered down at him. “It’s you is going to be sorry, dog official. You thought you were so smart. Had it all figured out. Coming to my house and telling the wife I’d killed Yoko.”
“You didn’t?” It hurt to speak.
Hiroshi laughs. “Of course I killed her. That bitch asked for it.”
“How?” mumbled Tora.
“She was coming back from the market and saw me outside the house. She wanted to know what I’d been doing there the night my father’s whore died. I went after her, pretending I was after sex.”
“You also killed your mother?”
Hiroshi spat. “That Chinese bitch wasn’t my mother. She deserved to die. She’d stolen my father’s gold. I’d have overlooked it, but the greedy cunt wouldn’t share.”
“You’re a killer, Hiroshi. You’re going away for a long time.”
Hiroshi burst out laughi
ng. “You’re going away forever, bastard.” He made a fist and struck Tora’s temple, and all went dark again.
*
When he woke next, he was alone and all was silent. He had no idea how much time had passed, but the pain was still with him, sharp and fresh. He lay very still and breathed slowly. He found he could open his eyes, but they saw only darkness, so he closed them again. Under his cheek was mud. The mud smelled of blood. His blood. It was so still he could hear his own breathing. Was he still bleeding? What had Hiroshi and the other one done to him? Had they left him to die?
If he did not move, the pain was bearable. He drifted off to sleep.
When he jerked awake again, the broken rib reminded him this was no dream. They had attacked him from behind, knocked him out, probably beaten him bloody, and tied him up. Later one of them had kicked him and broken a rib, and later again, Hiroshi had knocked him out with a fist to the temple.
He wanted him unconscious.
Correction: he wanted him dead, but first he wanted him unconscious.
But why?
And who was the other man?
Since he could do nothing else, he thought back. The watcher in the harbor office. He had followed the man, and then he had been ambushed.
The watcher was a stranger. Had he followed them a long time? Their visit to Fragrant Orchid’s house had attracted a lot of attention.
Tora tried to remember the crowd, but he could not come up with an answer. His mind had been on the courtesan’s death and later on the disappearance of the governor. It was not until the harbor office, that his master had noticed the watcher. And there, he had been pretty obvious, leaning beside the door and staring at them.
He had wanted to be seen.
It was a trick worth remembering. The colorful cloth tied around his head had been part of it, and so had his slow lumbering walk. Of course he had been easy to follow. He had made sure he was.
And like a fool Tora had fallen in the trap.
Self-reproach did not help.
He thought of the other voice again. Yes, it had sounded familiar. In an unpleasant way.
Tora concentrated, trying to play back the words in his mind.
He’ll never interfere with me again!
He had it! It had been that bastard Okata. He had taken this revenge because Tora’s reports had cost him his position. And Hiroshi had been eager to help. A pretty stupid thing to do. It would just make things worse for Okata. He had attacked an officer of the tribunal. It would not help Hiroshi either.
But dimly other words came back to Tora.
What’s next? That had been Hiroshi.
And Okata’s answer.
The convict ship.
Either way he’s a dead man.
It was not good, but Tora did not immediately understand.
Either way he’s a dead man.
Then the memory of Sado Island surfaced. His master had pretended to be a convict there and had almost died in the gold mine on that island.
But here?
And then it came to him: Tsushima. Another island with a mine. A silver mine. And yes, they their sent convicts there. Old Mitsui had hanged himself in his jail cell rather than face such a sentence.
Tora shuddered and bit his lip when pain stabbed at him again.
It had been easy for Okata. He had known all about convict ships, had connections who owed him favors, had made sure Tora would disappear without a trace.
He had no idea what time it was, but that did not matter. They would not miss him. Not today, if it was still that, or tonight, or the next day. He was on his own.
And there was nothing he could do. But he tried anyway. He twisted his wrists, gasping with the pain in his side. The effort did nothing but confirm that his ankles were also tied and somehow attached to the bonds around his wrists. Once, a long time ago, when he was younger and tougher and in better shape, he had been bound like this. He had managed to get to his knees and shuffle forward until he could break a jar and saw the rope apart against its sharp edge.
But such things do not repeat themselves. Besides, there was his broken rib. He could not move.
In the end, he rested from his efforts to loosen the rope and dozed off.
*
He came awake next when he heard the door slam.
It was still dark, but perhaps the darkness was not quite so dense as before, because he could see a darker shape bending over him.
“Help,” he croaked and heard someone cursing.
A whispered exchange followed, then a pause.
He hoped against hope.
Next he was turned over roughly and shouted with pain. The light of a lantern blinded him, but he opened his mouth to plead again when a hand shoved some rough fibers into it and then tightened a stinking cloth over his nose and mouth. He could not breathe, jerked violently, and then passed out again.
*
Night and nightmares. Monsters and ghosts and devils with knives, slashing his body. Hell. He had died and gone to hell.
The constant darkness suggested being underground. Buried. Buried alive? Yes, he felt pain, so he must be alive.
So, not hell. If not, then where?
The floor beneath him smelled of tar and wood and the stench of human bodies and excrement. And it moved, sideways and up and down.
He was lying down, his cheek against wooden boards. His arms and legs were still tied, but more loosely. He could move them a little.
But he also heard something, the sound of water sloshing against the wood underneath him and all around.
And he knew.
He was on a boat, or more likely, a ship. And, as he knew well enough from his last involuntary sea voyage, there was no getting away now, even if he had not been in agonizing pain.
He was on his way to the silver mines of Tsushima.
22
THE HIDDEN BUNDLE
After returning well past the middle of the night, Saburo slept late. The sun was high already and slanted into their room in the garrison of the tribunal. Saburo stretched and blinked at the lines of sun and shadow which revealed his surroundings.
He shared this large room with Tora, and while it lacked the comforts of home, it was more spacious than Saburo’s corner of the Sugawara stables. All this place contained was their bedding, rolled up during the day and placed in a corner, where he saw Tora’s now. Not surprisingly, his roommate was already up, though he did not hear the familiar sounds of his men being exercised outside.
He frowned and sat up. Their clothes hung from various hooks, as did two sets of armor. Saburo detested his and wore it only on parade occasions, but Tora was very fond of martial attire and had had his own armor adjusted by an armorer in Hakata. He frequently polished it after polishing his sword.
Saburo was no soldier, nor ever would be. He got up, yawned, and rolled up his bedding, placing it beside Tora’s. Then he dressed in his ordinary blue robe and pants, tying the black sash around his waist, and turning his attention to his topknot. The beard he had removed the night before. It itched too much to let him sleep comfortably.
One of the servants had left a bucket of water outside the door. Saburo brought it in. Dipping a cup into it, he rinsed out his mouth, than spat the water out into the yard. Closing the door again, he washed and, peering in a small mirror, he reapplied Lady Sugawara’s makeup to his scars. He hoped he could soon grow a beard and mustache. But not yet. Not while they were in the midst of an investigation into the disappearance of the last governor and none too certain that danger did not lie in wait for the present administration of the province.
Satisfied with his appearance, he tossed the dirty water outside and left the empty bucket for the servant. Then he made his way to his master’s office to report on his night’s adventures.
Lord Sugawara was already at work in the tribunal office, but when he saw Saburo, he said, “Come, I have some work for you in my study,” and got up.
On the way there, he asked, “Have y
ou seen Tora?”
This surprised Saburo. “No, sir. He was already up when I woke.” He paused. “Though I didn’t hear him exercising the troops. Is it possible he spent the night elsewhere?”
His lordship sighed. “It’s possible, though I’d hoped …” He broke off. In his study, he gestured to a cushion. “Some tea?”
“Yes, thank you. Allow me, sir.” Saburo stirred the coals in the brazier and placed the small water pot over them. Then he filled two cups with some ground tea leaves. “I had an exciting night, sir. Wait till you hear.”
His lordship took his seat behind his desk. “I’m anxious to hear about it. Useful information has been singularly lacking in this case. Do your activities throw some light on Governor Tachibana’s whereabouts?”
“Sorry, no.” Saburo poured boiling water on the tea leaves and stirred each cup carefully, then joined his master at the desk. “But it suggests that the merchant Feng has his fingers in some unsavory business.” He presented the tea to his master and sat down with his own.
They both sipped. His master said, “Please proceed. I’m all ears.”
Saburo began with his visit to the Dragon’s Lair. “Aptly named, I think,” he observed. “It’s where I saw Fingers, the Feng servant with the missing fingers, last time. This time, the sales clerk was there. He met with a young thug, gave him what looked like money, and left. I followed the young thug.”
“Excellent,” said his master with a smile. “I hope he didn’t recognize you?”
“No. Last time I was wearing these clothes. On this occasion, I dressed like the local crowd. Anyway, it turned out the man was a carter, because he took up his cart outside and headed off toward an area of derelict houses and wilderness. There, he took a bundle from his cart and entered an abandoned courtyard. I couldn’t follow him in, but when he came back, he was without the bundle. He next went home, and as it turns out, he lives next door to Mrs. Kimura, who took in the children.”
His lordship frowned. “Then I think he must be the son of that doll maker who was just found guilty of killing his wife. Very odd. What about the bundle?”
