The Emperor's Woman (Akitada Mysteries)

by Parker, I. J.

  Akitada glared at her. “I hear he beat the girl black and blue. How valuable does that make her?”

  She bristled. “Ohiro stole his money, that’s why. The girls will keep back earnings they’re supposed to turn in. It’s stealing, that’s what it is.”

  “Such beatings apparently were a frequent occurrence.”

  “Not really, but some girls are greedy. There’s a great temptation to do business on the side and tuck the money away or give it to a lover. Tokuzo was a businessman. You can’t blame him for looking after his money.”

  “Someone clearly blamed him. It seems to me you should be trying to find your son’s murderer quickly. If you decide to enforce the girls’ contracts, you may well be next.”

  She gulped. “The police—”

  Akitada snapped, “They think they’ve found their man and will do nothing. Perhaps you’d better think who else may have had a reason to hate your son.”

  She looked frightened now. “He was a good man,” she protested. “A good son and a hard worker. This is a hard business. The girls lie and cheat, and the customers get drunk and break the dishes and furnishings. One set fire to a room. Another threw a girl from a window. My son had to pay for the doctor. He paid every time one of the girls got a bruise or a bloody nose. He took good care of them. They ought to be grateful.”

  “Spare me. We know he beat them. This murder was violent enough to suggest a man is the killer. Who might have wanted your son dead?”

  “The girls have boyfriends, and a couple are married, though it’s against the rules. They may have lied about the way they were treated.”

  Akitada glared at her. “Names.”

  “You said your man couldn’t have done it. Ohiro’s one who might have told stories.”

  “Leave her out of it. She had nothing to do with this. Others?”

  Eventually, she recited a fairly long list of names. Akitada told her to write them down. She did not write well, but he could make out the names and nodded.

  “I didn’t put down two names. They’re dead,” she offered. “Miyagi and Ozuru.”

  The fact she mentioned them last made Akitada suspicious. “Add them. How did they die?”

  “Ozuru’s the one the customer threw out the window, and Miyagi had a miscarriage and bled to death.” She was matter-of-fact about these deaths. In her business, such events were apparently commonplace and considered part of the liability.

  Disgusted, Akitada took the list and turned to leave.

  “Wait, your lordship,” she cried. “What about Ohiro’s contract? When can we settle it?”

  “I’ll let you know.” Akitada hoped he could avoid paying this woman a single copper coin for Ohiro’s freedom.

  Out of Work

  The remnants of Saburo’s savings were almost gone after he bought himself some decent clothes to replace those he had left behind. He spent most of his money on a plain gray robe of good ramie, adding an inexpensive pair of narrow cotton trousers and a black sash. It seemed like a foolish expenditure for a man without income, but he hoped it would help him find employment as a scribe.

  The four years he had spent in the Sugawara household had changed him. He no longer tolerated the free and easy vagrant’s life he had led before, picking up a few coppers here and there, tossed by people who averted their eyes in disgust and pity. He also no longer could face sleeping in dirty alleyways or rubbing shoulders with robbers in hopes they might offer a share in their loot for information.

  He had told the literal truth when he assured Akitada he was no thief. He had never stolen anything, but he had helped those who did steal and had sometimes shared in their success. But he did not want to return to those days.

  What he had done to help Genba had been another matter, though he understood his master’s anger and accepted his dismissal as fair. But he would do it again. He would do it for friendship, as one friend for another—because to a man like Saburo having a friend was more precious than all the gold in the world.

  Unfortunately, he had made things worse for his friend, and he must try to fix that.

  He walked to one of the southern wards of the capital where he knew of several cheap hostels for travelers, but his first objective was a small, ramshackle house that took in lodgers.

  The widow who owned the house was an acquaintance. She had seen worse things in her long life than Saburo’s disfigured face. As one of the women paid by the authorities to clean abandoned corpses before burial or cremation, she had dealt with the bodies of newborn babies, diseased beggars, abused women, and tortured youths. Almost all of them had died by one form of violence or another. Saburo’s face did not shock her.

  She was too old and too fat now for such work and eked out her existence by renting out two rooms to poor laborers. She only rented to men, having found women more trouble than help. Women brought drunken men home with them, and those were likely to beat the woman and destroy a room in a rage over inadequate service or stolen money.

  Saburo had helped her once when a couple of young hoodlums had taunted her. One look at Saburo’s face had sent the youths running. She had thanked him. They had chatted briefly, exchanging interesting facts about their past lives.

  Now he knocked at her door with his bundles under his arm. She opened, blinked, then gave him a toothless smile. “Oh, is it you, Saburo? You startled me. You look well.” She peered more closely after she said this. “Maybe just a little peeked.”

  Saburo’s heart warmed to her, and he smiled his crooked smile. In truth, he had been feeling low—very low— but the reason for that was his dismissal. He had been almost happy until then.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Komiya. I’m quite healthy. I wondered if you might have a room for me.”

  “You need a room?” She hesitated just a moment, then nodded. “For you, yes.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten coppers a week, but you got to keep it clean and you got to lend a hand sometimes. I’m getting old and can’t climb ladders anymore or lift heavy things. My lodgers always help me.”

  He bowed. “A pleasure, dear lady.”

  That made her smile again. “Well, come in then and take a look.”

  The room was a mere cubby hole, just large enough for him to stretch out at night if he put his head on his bundle of possessions, but it was clean and had a separate door that led to a small vegetable patch in back of the poor little house.

  Saburo deposited his bundle and shook out his new robe and trousers, draping them over an exposed rafter to smooth out the wrinkles.

  “Oh my,” his landlady said. “How very fine you are! Are you sure this room is good enough?”

  Saburo counted out ten coppers and passed them to her. “I’m very poor. These clothes will help me find work as a scribe. If you’ll have me, I’m content.”

  “A scribe?” She tucked away the money and made him a little bow. “I’m honored, Master Saburo.”

  And so it was a bargain.

  Saburo asked if she needed help with anything. This pleased her. She gave him two wooden buckets and directions to a well where he could get water.

  Saburo found the well, but he frightened several women and children away with his face. This brought back his depression.

  Fetching water was women’s work, but Saburo was long past being proud, and hauled up the water, filled his buckets and carried them back.

  Having satisfied his bargain for the time being, he changed into his new clothes, retied his topknot, and set out for the city offices. There he applied for work as a scribe. His clothes got him into the office of one of the senior scribes, but there he was turned away. The man saw his face and shook his head. “Can’t have you frightening the public away,” he said. “And can’t have you working in the back because everyone will come to stare at you. Sorry, but we serve the people and must make allowances.”

  Saburo did not remind him that he, too, was people. He nodded and left. During the rest of the day, he visited several other pu
blic offices with no better results. Eventually, exhaustion drove him back to Mrs. Komiya’s to sleep.

  The next morning, he started the process all over again. Again he was turned away. His money was almost gone, and he skipped both his morning and midday meals. He was beginning to feel quite faint when it was getting dark and turned toward the merchant quarter, thinking to buy a cheap bowl of noodles in the market before returning to his new home.

  When he took a shortcut down an alley between two streets of merchants’ houses, he passed the back of a rice dealer’s business. Loud curses and a crash reached his ears, and he stopped, stepped on a barrel, and peered over the wall. He could see across a courtyard piled high with equipment, past open shutters into a room lit by an oil lamp. A middle-aged man was hopping about holding his foot and damning all the devils of hell. Saburo grinned. Apparently he had kicked his desk out the open doors.

  He guessed the man must be the owner of the business. No employee would dare treat his master’s furniture in this fashion. The merchant was portly and well dressed, and he had probably been working at the desk that now lay broken outside. Papers, a large account book, writing utensils, and an abacus also lay strewn about. Saburo took a chance.

  “What seems to be your problem, friend?” he asked.

  The man stopped hopping and peered into the darkness. With a scowl he asked, “What’s it to you?”

  “I was passing on my way to the market and heard you. If it’s bookkeeping that makes you angry, I’m a bookkeeper. Maybe I can help.”

  The man squinted, and Saburo realized he had weak eyes. “My advice is free, if you don’t mind my face,” he added.

  “Why should I care what you look like?” the merchant said ungraciously. “There’s a gate at the corner. Mind you, I’m not paying you.”

  “I said it’s free.” The gate was low and only latched from the inside. Anyone with a long enough arm could get in. Saburo’s arms were quite long enough. He crossed the yard and stopped to pick up the desk and the broken leg.

  In the room, the merchant gaped at him. “Dear heaven,” he gasped. “You weren’t kidding about your face. What happened to you?”

  Saburo gave him one of the abbreviated versions. In this one, he had been tortured by a group of robbers who had hoped to find the hiding place of his master’s gold.”

  “Did you tell them?”

  “No. I sent them off to another place. I knew the constables would catch them there.”

  “You escaped? You must’ve been barely alive.” Fascinated, the merchant studied the disfiguring scars.

  “Yes.” Saburo set down the desk and propped up the edge missing the leg with a couple of ledgers. “Let me have a look at your accounts. What was wrong with them?”

  “I caught my clerk, the young demon, in bed with my daughter and threw him out. Now I can’t make heads or tails of my books.”

  Saburo nodded and picked up the account book. Gathering the writing utensils and placing everything on the desk, he said, “Could you bring some water, please?”

  The merchant padded off.

  Saburo frowned over the scribbling of his predecessor. When the merchant came back with the water, Saburo mixed fresh ink and said, “Your clerk’s been stealing more from you than your daughter.”

  The fat merchant’s jaw dropped. “How?”

  Saburo showed him in entries. “Here and here.” He reached for the abacus and started adding sums. “My guess is he took about twenty pieces of silver last month.”

  The merchant gasped. “I’ll kill him.”

  Saburo grunted. “Where are the new figures?”

  The man gathered some of the fallen papers and sorted them. He had to dictate the figures to Saburo, who entered the new information neatly, added, subtracted, and showed the result. “I might take the job,” he said.

  The merchant looked at the neat handwriting and nodded. Then he looked at Saburo’s face and nodded again. “Why not,” he said. “My daughter won’t give you a second glance, and if you work out, I’ll pay you a silver piece every other week.”

  It wasn’t much, but Saburo agreed. “I’ll be here tomorrow to record the new transactions.”

  “That will take only a few hours’ work,” the merchant protested.

  “Take it or leave it,” Saburo said, getting to his feet. “And I expect to eat here.”

  The man hesitated. “We can try it,” he finally said grudgingly.

  “Good. I’m Saburo, and you?”

  “Sosuke. You’ll be back tomorrow?”

  Saburo nodded and left quickly by the alley gate.

  Greatly cheered at having thus settled the problem of his lodging and income, Saburo continued to the market where he splurged on a meal of fried sea bream and vegetables accompanied by wine. Even the fact that the waiter seated him in a dark corner did not affect his contentment.

  As he ate and drank, slowly and with enjoyment, he considered his options. The shock of being dismissed so quickly and bluntly after four years of service had not lasted long. He had been afraid it would happen. In fact, it might have happened much earlier. Saburo had always known that Sugawara Akitada, for all his generous and fair demeanor, had an absolutely rigid interpretation of the law. He had accepted it as part of his lordship’s profession—much in the way in which breaking into people’s homes and spying on them was part of his.

  What had hurt was the fact that Saburo had tried to help Genba, and his erstwhile master had not acknowledged that. If he was to serve a man like Lord Sugawara, he should be able to use the skills that were available to him to protect the members of his family.

  But here he was, and Genba and his girlfriend were still in jail. And Lord Sugawara was still at odds with Superintendent Kobe of the police. These problems must be corrected.

  Saburo swallowed his last bite of fish (it had been a most delicious sea bream) and finished the last of the rice, moistened with the rest of the wine, then smacked his lips. He would not be able to live like this again for a long time. What the merchant paid him would just cover his rent and a few meals bought from noodle sellers and dumpling bakers. He needed his spare time to look for the mysterious man who had attacked him and taken the contracts.

  This stranger was someone like himself, though much more dangerous. The long needle he had carried meant he was not just a spy. Saburo had never been asked to kill anyone, but he and the stranger had probably received similar training. The fact that this man had dropped the needle when he had tangled with Genba in the alley near Tokuzo’s brothel suggested he was there because someone had hired him to kill Tokuzo. He had carried out his assignment but, having lost the needle, he had used cruder methods. A needle inserted through a man’s ear or nostril into his brain would have caused an undetectable wound or something like a nosebleed. The death would have been blamed on an accident or some mysterious illness. Instead, the assassin had provoked a murder investigation by the police.

  Why, then, had he returned to the scene of his crime to get the contracts? It made no sense.

  Saburo paid the waiter, who was barely civil, conveying the message that he was not welcome in the future. Saburo refrained from giving the man a tip, and left, hearing “Hope you rot, you ugly devil!” behind his back.

  It was night, but he felt strengthened by his meal and thought the time right for a visit to the beggars’ guild. He returned to his lodging where he took off his new clothes, hanging them again carefully over an exposed rafter. Then he undid his bundle and took out his black pants and shirt. He missed the old brown jacket he had left outside the brothel that night, but there was no point in going back for it. Someone had long since picked it up.

  That he had returned the contracts had caused Saburo to adjust his opinion of the assassin. That had been an unselfish act. Men who are hired to kill someone don’t go to the trouble this man had gone to. The assassin could have sold his haul. What made him so considerate of whores?

  Perhaps the contracts had been his primary
objective. In that case, he had been hired either by the women themselves or by a man close to one of them.

  Someone like Genba.

  Saburo dismissed the thought. Genba and Ohiro did not have enough money to hire an assassin. The women who worked for Tokuzo could have pooled their savings, though. He was not happy with this idea either. Whores had rarely the foresight to save.

  Who then? And why?

  The attack on himself he explained by the fact that the assassin had seen him enter the brothel by the side door, and had then lain in wait and knocked him out. When he had searched him, he had found the contracts and his needle.

  It was embarrassing.

  Never mind. He would find the slippery bastard and have it out with him. With interest for the head-bashing.

  By the time Saburo reached the abandoned temple, it was quiet and dark. The sky was overcast, and a smell of rain was in the air. Saburo slipped along the ruined galleries like a ghost. In the open areas of the big temple courtyard, two fires burned and dark shadows sat around them or moved about. A faint glimmer of oil lamps came from some of the huts and lean-tos. The beggars had come home from their labors.

  The man he wanted was the giant. That was why he circled around to the ruined wing of the hall where he had regained consciousness. He thought everyone probably had their assigned space, and the giant would be in the same place as last time.

  He was, or near enough. He and three old men were shooting dice for coppers by the light of two lanterns with oil lights. Saburo thought he recognized two of the players as the old men he had nearly vomited on, but he could not be sure in the murk.

  “Greetings, Jinsai” he said, joining them. “I thought I’d come to thank you.”

  They jumped a little, then relaxed. The giant frowned. “So it’s you again. Someone’s been looking for you.”

  Saburo’s heart missed a beat. Surely not the assassin. But who else would look for him here? “Really? Who? What did he want?”

  “You. And when he didn’t get any help from me, he asked for Bashan or Kenko. What did you tell him?”