by I. J. Parker
Akitada selected a reasonable number of these and sent the rest back. The young man then accompanied Akitada, carrying the documents and a small writing box.
They arrived at the Tsuchimikado Palace with a proper air of importance and demanded to speak to the prince. A guard at the gate denied them access. The prince was apparently under house arrest.
“I’m here on official orders from the Ministry of Justice,” snapped Akitada. “Send for your superior this instant.”
After a short wait, a senior officer, wearing the uniform of the outer palace guard, appeared, a captain by his insignia, and a member of a family in power at court. He frowned and drawled, “What is all this? I have not been informed. You’re Sugawara, are you? What business does the Ministry of Justice have with His Highness?”
Akitada made the man a slight bow-received with a mere nod-and said stiffly, “It has been thought proper at this time to confirm the extent of His Highness’s holdings, since they are likely to play a part in the legal proceedings.”
The captain’s face cleared. In fact, he looked positively eager. “Ah! Is that the case? My apologies. They must be moving more quickly than we thought. Still, rules are rules. May I check the documents?”
Akitada waved the clerk forward, and the captain investigated each scroll and volume before nodding.
“Yes. Quite correct,” he said cheerfully. “Well, I have no objection, of course, but I don’t think he’ll see you. He won’t talk to anyone. A bit mad, if you ask me. There have been outbursts. Even his ladies are afraid to go near him.”
“I see. Please tell him that I must see him urgently. Umm, perhaps you should say it is in his best interest.”
The captain smirked at this and showed them to a very elegant reception room. Akitada paced nervously. Much depended on his seeing the prince, and seeing him alone. He became aware of soft sounds-silken rustlings and whispers. Behind the dais a series of screens with painted scenes of mountain landscapes hid an adjoining room. No doubt, eyes were glued to the narrow gaps between the panels. The prince’s household was curious about his purpose here. He could not blame them. Their own lives and fates were tied to those of their husband and master.
To his relief, it was not the captain who returned, but an elderly man in a sober brown silk robe. He introduced himself as the prince’s majordomo and led the way to an inner apartment past several courtyards where cherry trees bloomed. True to their poetic meaning of impermanence, they had scattered their petals like snow across the gravel.
Happiness had indeed been short-lived for Prince Atsuhira.
There were no guards at the door to the prince’s room. This, too, made things easier. Apparently, the prince was allowed a certain amount of privacy out of respect for his person.
“Wait here,” Akitada said to the young clerk, taking the documents but leaving the writing utensils with him. “I’ll call when I need you.”
The majordomo opened the door, announced, “Lord Sugawara,” let Akitada walk in, and then closed the door behind him.
The room was dim. The green reed shades to the outside had been lowered, and the bright sunlight outside left only faint golden patterns on the polished wood floor. The prince sat hunched over a scattering of books and papers. Akitada was shocked to see how much he had changed from the cheerful young man he used to know. They were nearly the same age, but Atsuhira’s sagging figure had nothing in common with the athletic young man who had liked riding, sports, and hunting in the mountains.
Atsuhira’s face was pale and drawn. He raised listless eyes to Akitada.
“I remember you,” he said in a flat voice. “You used to be at Kosehira’s parties.”
“Yes, Highness.” Akitada looked around the room and back at the solid door. They seemed to be alone, and the apartment was self-contained, without those screens and temporary walls that could be erected in large spaces to divide them into many smaller rooms. Still, he lowered his voice when he said, “Kosehira has told me of your difficulties.”
The prince frowned. He looked at the documents under Akitada’s arm. “I’m confused. Are you here because Kosehira sent you, or because my enemies are already dividing up my lands?”
“The former.” Akitada set the documents down and bowed. “I’d like to be of service if you will allow me.” Seeing the prince hesitate, he added, “You may recall that I was once able to intercede in the matter of a stolen letter.”
The prince flushed, then gestured to a cushion, and Akitada sat.
“Very good of you to come,” the prince said, sounding listless again, “but I need no help this time.”
“Surely, Highness, you must defend yourself against the false charges of insurrection and treason.”
“My enemies are posturing. They have no case. They want to frighten me into flight. As it is, they have nothing to fear from me. I shall take the tonsure soon, and if they try to prevent me, I shall make an end of my miserable life. You may tell Kosehira of my decision.” He took up one of his scrolls and began to read, a signal that he considered the conversation over.
Akitada sought for words to reach the prince, who now seemed to be reciting a sutra. Finally, he said the only thing that came to his mind.
“Your Highness, the Lady Masako may have been murdered.”
He regretted his words instantly, because he had no proof. In truth, all he really had was a vague suspicion-and a fervent wish that the young woman had not stepped off the cliff that snowy night four months ago.
The prince dropped the sutra scroll. “What? Are you serious?”
“Yes, there are aspects to the case that look suspicious. I came to ask you about them.”
The prince’s brows contracted. “Kosehira had no right.” He looked angry.
“Kosehira is your friend, as he is mine.”
“Do you have anything to support your extraordinary charge?”
Atsuhira was nothing if not intelligent. That distinguished him from most of the imperial offspring and perhaps accounted for the fact that his enemies had started their ugly campaign against him again. They preferred sovereigns who were easily led and took no interest in government. The current emperor, the prince’s first cousin, was still very young and, from all accounts, totally engrossed in his women and games. It was Atsuhira’s bad luck that he was much admired by the people who wanted him to be reinstated as crown prince.
Akitada said cautiously, “I have spoken with Superintendent Kobe. He described the injuries on the body. They have raised some questions.”
The prince buried his face in his hands. “I found her,” he said hoarsely. “She lay at the bottom of the cliff, covered with snow. There was blood in the snow. Kobe said it proved she was alive and died from the fall.” He raised his head to look at Akitada with bleak eyes. “Is that what you came to hear?”
“No. I knew it already.” Akitada hesitated, seeing the pain-racked face of the prince. “You see, her skull was badly damaged,” he ventured as gently as he could, “but there was little damage to her legs. I would have expected the opposite if she had stepped off the cliff.”
The prince slowly shook his head from side to side. “What does it matter? She’s dead.”
“Someone may have pushed her and caused her to fall head first. If Lady Masako was murdered, don’t you want the guilty person punished?”
“No!” The word was an agonized shout. The prince was very upset. His eyes flashed. “Why do you force your way into my solitude to talk to me of things that churn up my insides and bring back the nightmares that are with me day and night? Are you so unfeeling and lacking in understanding that you cannot see that nothing matters now? She is gone! Nothing will bring her back. How much better to accept that she took the fatal step because she wanted to than to imagine her in the hands of a brutal killer, unable to save herself?” He gave a small sob and clenched his hands. “She was alone! Alone because I was not there to protect her. How do you think that makes me feel? I was passing the time in id
le chatter with your friend Kosehira instead. If you came here to help me, I don’t want your help. And if you’re here to help your friend, you’ve come to the wrong man. I have cursed Kosehira for delaying me that night. I don’t care what happens to him… or me… or you. Go! ”
With that final shout, the prince turned his back on Akitada.
Akitada sat frozen. How could he have been so stupid? He should have considered the prince’s feelings. He had wasted his time and made things worse. The anger at Kosehira for delaying the prince on that fateful night had probably lain dormant until this moment.
After a long time, he said humbly, “Forgive me, your Highness. I was truly insensitive and should have spared you this. I hope you will believe that my first thoughts were for Lady Masako. I have seen many crimes in my life, and always my thoughts have been for the victims. But I also think about preventing more grief and death among the living by apprehending the murderer.”
He got to his feet. The prince did not turn or give any indication he had heard. Akitada made his deep bow anyway and, picking up the documents, left quietly.
Outside the door waited his clerk. Akitada passed the stack of papers back to him. Had the boy been listening? The doors of the palace were solid enough, but Akitada could not be sure they blocked all sound, and the prince had shouted in his anger. The young face was expressionless, and Akitada turned to go.
In the courtyard, the captain met him. “Ah, back already?” he asked, his eyes bright with curiosity. “I hope you got what you needed.”
“No, I’m afraid not.” Akitada did not have to pretend disappointment. “His Highness refused to discuss the matter.”
The captain scowled. “I thought so. It’s time he learned that he’s no better than the rest of us and has no special rights. Never mind. It won’t be long and he’ll be very glad to cooperate.”
And that perhaps was another thing Akitada would regret. The last thing he wished on that broken man was for his life to be made even more unbearable than it was already.
Tokuzo’s Brothel
During the night following their visit to the Sasaya, Saburo got up very quietly and left the room he shared with Genba.
It was not the first time he had done so. Since he had entered Lord Sugawara’s service, he had sacrificed a few hours’ sleep every night in order to explore the capital and hone his old skills. His duties were not particularly onerous, and he needed little sleep. But he was uncomfortably aware that he lacked Seimei’s gift of making himself indispensable to the family in areas other than bookkeeping and letter writing. His knowledge of medicine, for example, had been sadly neglected at the monastery in favor of spying skills. He was quite fond of children, but since his disfigurement frightened most of them, he had kept his distance. His master’s children were used to him by now, but he had long since become awkward at talking to the young.
He also stayed away from the women in the household, but for different reasons. He distrusted women, even hated them at times. His Buddhist teachings had painted women as mindless, soulless, corrupt, and corrupting. His rare encounters had proved they were also cruel and greedy.
He had laid ready his black shirt and long black pants. These two items had cleverly sewn seams that held small useful implements of metal and bamboo. As soon as Genba’s snoring assured him he was soundly asleep, Saburo seized the bundle of clothes and his old brown jacket, and left the stable.
He changed outside, under the eaves, tucking his regular clothes behind a barrel. Then he left the compound by climbing over the back wall. The dog Trouble raised his head briefly, gave a few muffled slaps with his tail, and went back to sleep.
As Saburo walked the dark streets, he looked no different from most of the poor who were out after a late night at a wine shop or brothel. He kept his face tucked into the collar of his brown jacket and moved along purposefully on the soft grass soles of his sandals.
Tonight he was going to try to help Genba. He liked the big man; you could not help liking him. But Saburo was also jealous of his placid good nature that made people like him; there were even times when he almost disliked him. This always made him feel guilty, because Genba in his cheerful innocence went out of his way to be a friend to the friendless Saburo.
Genba’s success in having found love surprised and dismayed him. The big man with his paunch, his round, plain face, and his awkward rolling gait was hardly the type to be attractive to women. In fact, Genba should have experienced female cruelty much like Saburo had, yet the man was still capable of falling madly in love with one of the creatures. Only Cook, both ugly and fat, had ever shown any interest in Genba.
Of course, Genba’s woman was a harlot. In Saburo’s experience, harlots were rapacious and hid their cruelty only when they planned to fleece the customer. He had learned that bitter lesson after his disfigurement, and had it confirmed on the rare occasions when he tried to buy sexual services.
So he had laughed at Genba, along with Tora.
And felt guilty again.
The night was a dark and sweet-scented. Clouds had moved in and covered the sky with black silk. Saburo loved the dark. In the dark, people could not see his face. In the dark, it was even possible to lie with a woman and pretend he was normal.
For a little while.
Yes, he was jealous of Genba’s happiness. And because he was ashamed, he hoped to discover Tokuzo’s killer and clear Genba. Perhaps he could also help the romance along a little.
The hour was late, but in the pleasure quarter, a few women still walked the street or peered from the small windows of their brothels. They called out invitations to Saburo or tried to pull him inside by his sleeve until he raised his face out of the collar of his jacket and scowled at them, baring his teeth and rolling his eyes, taking small satisfaction from their gasps.
The Sasaya was closed and appeared to be dark-whether from respect for the death of its owner or because Tokuzo’s harlots were out celebrating their temporary freedom was not clear.
Saburo passed the brothel slowly a few times, then slipped along its side wall to the back. Like many businesses in the quarter, it had a walled yard formed partially by a kitchen building on one side and a storage shed on the other. Here, too, all was dark and still. Luckily there were no dogs about, for the animals would have detected him by now. He took off his brown jacket and laid it on the ground. Now dressed from head to foot in black, he melted into the darkness.
From the narrow footpath that ran behind the block of businesses, Saburo swung himself up onto the rear wall and, after a quick look around, dropped down silently on the other side. He verified that kitchen and shed were deserted, then studied the two-storied main house. Rickety stairs led up to a balcony that ran along the entire back of the building. Apparently it formed the access to rooms above where the harlots could take their customers.
Tonight, those rooms were unlikely to be occupied, but he drew in his breath when he detected a very faint chink of light behind one of the closed shutters below. Someone was here. Given the owner’s recent murder, this was interesting.
Saburo considered the problem. Two-story houses without exposed ceiling beams were difficult to enter when occupied. He could not get in through the roof to cross the building on the beams. Still, perhaps all was not lost. He eyed the stairs and balcony and decided both were so poorly built that they would give away his presence by creaking.
In the end, he climbed on the low roof of the kitchen building, and from there he leaped to the corner post of the balcony. He almost did not make it and cursed himself for having become so clumsy. His grip had been somewhat desperate, and he had slid a foot or so before wrapping his legs and arms around the post and shimmying back up. For a moment, he listened. When all remained peaceful, he lifted a leg over the railing and stepped cautiously on the boards near the wall. They were solid and silent. Then he slowly slid open the nearest door and slipped inside.
Intense darkness and stench. The smell of the room disgusted
him. Dirt, sweat, spilled wine, and sex. Motionless, he listened. Nothing. The faint light from the half-opened door showed sparse furnishings: a smallish grass mat and a bundle of bedding. He grimaced. Little enough was needed to bring a half-drunk man up here, take his money, and lie with him for some brief groping and sex.
There was a faint sound, and he listened. He thought he could hear voices from below. Slipping back out on the balcony, he walked along the wall until he reached the room next to the last. Here the voices were clearest.
A man and a woman.
He entered this room on his hands and knees, exploring the boards with his fingertips before putting his weight on them. The planking was cheaply made. In one corner, it had not been nailed down properly. Very slowly and silently, he raised the loose board and propped one of his sandals under it. Lying down next to the narrow opening, he could not only hear what the two below were saying, but he also saw a part of the room they sat in.
A lantern lit the scene inadequately. The two people sat near an open money chest. Saburo saw the top of the man’s head, his shoulders, and his hands as he took coins and bars from the chest. The man counted softly as he put the money into a bag. Saburo was amazed at the sums. For a brothel keeper, Tokuzo had been very successful. The man who handled Tokuzo’s wealth so efficiently wore the clothes of a low-ranking official. He was hatless, and his balding scalp and thick neck proved he was middle-aged and fat.
The woman, whom Saburo could not see at all, spoke with the cracked voice of the elderly and in a tone that suggested they were related. She was apparently watching the man. From their comments, Saburo decided these two were Tokuzo’s mother and brother.
“Hurry up,” the old one said in a querulous tone. “This could’ve waited till morning.”
“I’m not leaving my brother’s wealth unguarded in this house,” he said. “You forget the people he associated with. Besides, you could’ve stayed home.”