by I. J. Parker
Saburo asked, “Who are you?”
“You can call me Kenko, Saburo.”
“You know me?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. What’s to know?”
Did this mad old man expect an answer? “My head hurts,” Saburo said.
“Put it from your mind.”
“How did I get here?”
“Too many questions.” With the help of a staff lying beside him, the old man got up with much groaning and coughing. He spat again, then, leaning on his staff, he limped away.
Saburo sat up and cautiously felt the back of his head. He encountered a good deal of half-dried blood and a very tender lump. Checking the rest of his body was more reassuring. Memory returned. Some bastard had attacked him inside the brothel.
Who? Tokuzo’s mother and brother could not have returned. He would have heard them. No, the attacker in the dark hallway had been someone silent and furtive. A thief.
Or rather, someone like himself, for most thieves would have given themselves away sooner.
But that made no sense whatsoever.
Saburo tested his limbs and turned his mind to another puzzle. He was certain his attacker had not been there earlier. Unless it was an accidental encounter, he must have followed him into Tokuzo’s place and waited for him in the hallway. Saburo doubted that their visits had coincided by chance.
Then why had the other man been there? The obvious answer was the gold that Tokuzo’s brother and mother had carried away earlier. But a good thief, and this man was very good, would have watched the house and known he was too late for the money.
Perhaps he had wanted something else.
Or someone else. If the stranger had watched carefully, he would have known Saburo had entered the brothel. But what had he wanted?
Frustrated, Saburo dropped the matter and wondered instead how he had got to this place. Had his attacker brought him here? Surely not. It didn’t make any sense to knock someone out and then carry him all that far. The distance from the Willow Quarter to the temple was too great.
Saburo was brushing the dust off his clothes when he realized he was missing something. The thick sheaf of papers, the brothel’s contracts he had tucked inside his shirt, was gone. And that caused him to check his sleeves.
His tools and the assassin’s needle were also gone!
So that had been what the stranger wanted.
The contracts could perhaps be explained. They were valuable. But why take the tools and the needle? And how had the unknown man known where to look for them? They had been inserted into the seams of his shirt. Now those seams were undone and threads hung loose. Unless his attacker had felt them by accident, he must have known where to search.
It began to look more and more as though he had encountered a colleague. Most likely the professional assassin Genba had tangled with the night before. The assassin had a personal interest in the Sasaya.
Saburo got to his feet, fought a bout of dizziness, and looked around him.
In spite of the huge hole in the roof, the floor of the abandoned temple was in partial darkness. It seemed to be strewn with debris and garbage. Fallen columns, leaning walls, piles of broken roof tiles were everywhere. So were broken dishes, rags, and rotting food remnants. He was in a section that still had a partial roof over it and walls on three sides. But here, too, a lot of rubble and garbage had collected. Bundles of rags were piled in corners here and there. A charred section showed someone had made a fire on the wooden floor, perhaps to cook, for an iron pot and some other utensils stood nearby.
Then Saburo remembered that Honkokuji was the beggars’ den.
A bout of dizziness seized him, and a sudden retching took him forward to a corner to vomit.
“Hey!”
The filthy pile of rags disintegrated into two separate segments that flew to either side. The shock stopped his nausea. He swallowed and stared.
Curses assaulted his ears from both sides. Other voices sounded from a distance, and here and there piles of garbage took on substance and life as if they had been magically transformed into creatures.
Saburo apologized to the two old men he had disturbed. They grumbled and sat down again. One of them had lost an arm.
“How did I get here?” Saburo asked them. “Did you see who brought me?”
The cripple jerked his head toward the left. There sat a giant of a man with bushy black hair and beard. He was watching Saburo with a wide grin.
Saburo, his head hurting as if it meant to split open, walked over. “Hello,” he said, nodding his head in greeting and flinching at the pain. “I’m Saburo. I hear you brought me here last night. Is that right?”
The giant mouthed something incomprehensible. Saburo squatted down before him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. I’m very grateful, though. I wondered where you found me.”
One of the old men joined them. “He can’t talk. They cut out his tongue. Most people don’t know what he’s saying.”
The giant nodded. His eyes went from Saburo to the old man. He mumbled. Spittle dripped from the corners of his mouth into his beard as he struggled with the words.
The old man translated, “He says you looked like one of us, so he picked you up and brought you here. He says you were in an alley in the Willow Quarter. He works there.”
“He works? You mean he isn’t a beggar?” Saburo was still trying to understand why this man had carried him all the way across the city.
The old man frowned at him. “We all work,” he pointed out. “We got our places, and there we sit or stand every day to pick up a few coppers. Jinsai keeps late hours because the Willow Quarter stays busy till dawn, but he makes good money there. He does odd jobs sometimes.”
The giant nodded and grinned.
The old man scowled back. “He needs to,” he said snidely. “Look at the size of the beast. He eats his weight in food every day.”
The giant smiled more broadly.
“Would you ask him if he saw anyone near me?”
“He can hear you well enough,” snapped the old man.
Saburo made the giant an apologetic bow, groaned, and reached for his head.
The big man mouthed something and gestured.
The old-timer nodded. “Nobody near you, but a man was walking away at the end of the alley.”
“Did you see what he looked like?”
The giant scratched his head, pointed at Saburo and muttered.
“He looked like you,” the old man translated with a grin.
“He looked like me?” Saburo stared at him.
The giant chuckled, gestured some more, and pointed at Saburo’s clothes. The old man explained, “He was your size and dressed in black from head to toe. What happened to your face?”
Saburo had to answer this question all the time. He minded, just as he minded the stares, the averted eyes, the expressions of horror and disgust. At least neither the giant nor the old beggar seemed at all bothered by his horrible disfigurement. No doubt they were used to all sorts of horrors. He said, “Some men wanted to know what I couldn’t tell them.”
“Oh,” said the old man and fell silent. The giant leaned across and patted Saburo’s shoulder with his huge paw, causing him to tumble sideways and cry out at the sudden pain in his head.
The giant muttered. The old man said, “Jinsai says to let Bashan look at your head. Come, I’ll take you.”
Saburo protested, but the old man was already limping away. This time, Saburo just waved a hand toward the giant, then followed the old beggar.
The temple had once been very large, and while it offered only partial shelter against the rain, its inhabitants had found their own means of improving it. Here and there, fallen debris and sections of wood flooring or of interior walls had been salvaged and cobbled together to make small huts and lean-tos. There they lived, singly or as small families. The whole formed a village of sorts. He was in the beggars’ headquarters. This ruined temple was the location of their kakibe, their guild, f
or they were organized like any other business in the city. And they were untouchable, and therefore outside the jurisdiction of the city. They had their own laws and rules.
The old man headed for the open courtyard. It was still surrounded by partial walls and the remnants of outbuildings. Even parts of the pagoda remained. Near the well of what must have been the kitchen area when monks still lived there, a small group of people had gathered to watch a bald man at his work.
Bashan.
Saburo saw that Bashan was one of the blind masseurs. His head was shaven and he knelt in front of a seated man, probing inside his mouth. Beside him rested an open wooden satchel. Many masseurs were blind men and performed their services by touch only. Some even practiced acupuncture and moxibustion, carrying their tools in a box that could be slung across their shoulder and chest. Such work was possible for the blind, and some became very good at it.
But Saburo did not trust a blind man to touch his head and stopped. “No, wait. I don’t need any help. I feel fine.”
The old man ignored him and shouted, “Hey, there, Bashan. Got a patient for you. He’s had a bad knock on his head. Get your fingers out of Goto’s mouth and take a look at him.” He chortled at the expression. Seeing Saburo’s reaction, he added, “Got magic in those fingers. Don’t you worry.”
The masseur had turned his face in their direction. His eyes were half closed, and he leaned his head sideways as if to hear better. He called out, “Is that you, Eino? I’m done.” He held up a bloody tooth and made Saburo gag again. “Bring him over here.”
His patient rose with a wide grin of relief, the gaps in his teeth proving he had lost teeth before and probably more painfully.
The old man seized Saburo by the sleeve and drew him forward.
“Really, I’m fine,” said Saburo, hanging back. “Thanks, Bashan, but I don’t need any treatment. Besides I’ve got no money.”
Bashan laughed. It was a nice laugh, full-throated and pleasant. Tora saw that the blind masseur was tall and would have been handsome if not for his disability. “Nobody has any money here, friend. Sit down and let me touch your face.”
Saburo recoiled. “No!”
Bashan cocked his head. “What’s wrong?”
The old beggar explained, “He’s got those ugly scars on his face. He says someone tortured him. It’s really the back of his head needs looking at.” To Saburo, he repeated, “Don’t you worry! Bashan’s very gentle.”
With an inward sigh, Saburo sat down across from the masseur. Bashan washed his hands in a basin and dried them on a cloth attached to his belt. Then he traced Saburo’s scars with his fingers. Their touch was cool from the water and soft and very quick. “I see,” he murmured. “Did you tell them what they wanted to know?”
“Yes,” Saburo said, angry at the man and at himself. “You would’ve done the same.”
“I believe you. Now lean down so I can check your head.”
Again Bashan’s touch was feather light. Saburo felt only a couple of brief twinges.
“You’ll do,” pronounced the masseur. “If you permit, I’ll wash your hair to keep the wound clean and prevent you frightening people. There’s a lot of blood.”
“You’re very kind, but I don’t want to trouble you.”
“No trouble. I pride myself on the way I wash hair.” Bashan chuckled.
Saburo murmured, “Thank you,” and submitted.
Apart from the faint burning when the water and Bashan’s fingers came too close to his broken scalp, the experience was pleasant, and when it was over, Saburo felt a good deal better.
“Do you wear your hair in a knot?” asked the masseur.
“Yes, but I didn’t tonight. I suppose the knot might have softened the blow.”
Bashan smiled. “Perhaps, but I don’t think your enemy meant to kill you.”
“I don’t feel particularly grateful at the moment,” Saburo said sourly. “I’ve worked out that I’m in the temple of the beggars. When I first came to, there was this weird old fellow in women’s clothes sitting beside me. He called me by my name and said he was Kenko. It was… well, disconcerting. How did he know my name?”
Bashan’s eyebrows rose. “A warning, friend. The Venerable Kenko is the chief of the beggars and the temple priest. The people here love and obey him. As for how he knew your name: Kenko knows just about everything. My guess is someone recognized you and told him.”
Saburo thought about this. It was possible. His face was not easily forgotten, and beggars were everywhere. He also thought about the priest. Aside from Bashan, the beggars so far had not impressed him. A priest dressed in a woman’s red silk gown perhaps least of all. But he knew he had almost made a bad mistake.
“Thanks for your help,” he told Bashan. “I owe you. I’m not one of them, so I can pay, only I don’t have any money on me. I’ll come back. Will I find you here?”
“Only when they need me,” Bashan said, packing his tools into his case. “And you owe me nothing. But be careful, Saburo. Next time you may not be so lucky.” He got to his feet, slung the box over his shoulder and chest, attached the basin to it, and took up a long staff leaning against the well coping. Giving Tora a nod, he walked away, tapping the ground before him.
Saburo cast another look around. The beggars had melted away, and he was alone. Never mind. He would return when he felt a bit better. It had struck him that beggars made the perfect spies, being everywhere and ignored by all.
The Grieving Father
Akitada pondered the character of the prince’s wife all the way to the Minamoto residence. He wished he could speak to this powerful woman, but his interview with the prince had not gone well, and he had no way of approaching Lady Kishi.
She would not in any case welcome such a call, even if the problems of visiting another man’s wife could be overcome. Lady Kishi was in a peculiar position. As Prince Atsuhira’s wife, she was most likely deeply offended by her husband’s affair with one of the emperor’s ladies, yet, her fate was tied to her husband’s, and he clearly was in serious political trouble. Would she have been angry enough to punish him by accusing him of treasonable plotting? It did not seem likely, but perhaps she had acted thoughtlessly in her jealousy and now regretted having taken her vengeance.
Then there was the murder of Lady Masako. Could Lady Kishi have ordered it? The charge of treason did not appear to be related to the murder of his lover, but Akitada did not like the coincidence.
Yes, Lady Kishi was a fascinating character and certainly a suspect in the murder at least.
Minamoto Masaie’s house was within a block of the western wall of the Greater Palace enclosure. Many of the provincial lords maintained town residences to conduct business in the capital. Masaie’s was a comfortable size and well maintained behind its plaster walls and roofed double gate.
Armed soldiers guarded this gate and were more peremptory than at the prince’s palace, but these were Masaie’s own retainers.
“I come from the Ministry of Justice and have business with your master,” Akitada told them.
The senior man merely shook his head.
Akitada was searching his mind for something that might gain him access when he looked past the warrior and saw a familiar short, round figure inside the compound. His friend Kosehira was coming toward the gate.
He looked glum, but his round face broke into a smile when he saw Akitada. “I’m so glad to see you,” he cried. “What are you doing here?”
Akitada glanced at the guard. “I wanted to pay my respects to Masaie, but I don’t seem to be welcome. And you?”
“Paying my mother’s respects,” said Kosehira with a grimace. “Come, I’ll introduce you.” To the soldier, he said, “He’s all right. I know him.” And with that he drew Akitada into the compound.
They did not try to stop them. Kosehira’s position apparently vouched for both of them.
Still it rankled a little. “Would you mind telling me,” Akitada asked, “how you manage
to gain access while I, a representative of a ministry, am denied?”
“Oh, it’s the same old story. It’s not whom you represent but whom you know. Don’t forget the regent is my cousin.”
Akitada shook his head. They passed into an inner courtyard and walked along an open gallery to a side wing of the main house. Here a servant saw them and ran to tell his master.
Minamoto Masaie was talking to a tall young man as they walked in. Apparently, they had interrupted an argument because both looked thunderous at the interruption.
Masaie glared at the servant, who muttered an apology and ran. “Back again already?” the Minamoto lord said to Kosehira. “What do you want now?”
Not a promising beginning.
And very rude, considering Kosehira’s status.
The young man bore a resemblance to Masaie. They were both large with round heads and big limbs. Both wore beards. And both were red-faced with anger. Akitada guessed they were father and son.
Before Kosehira could speak, the son decided to add his own insults, perhaps to deflect his father’s anger from himself and curry favor with him. “You lack manners, sir,” he snapped at Kosehira. ‘How dare you have the gall to trouble my father at such a time? He just lost his daughter. Where is your respect?”
Masaie growled, “Quiet, Masanaga. You may leave us.”
The son closed his mouth and glared.
Kosehira didn’t bat an eyelid. He smiled at the young man. “Sorry, Masanaga. Didn’t know you were with your father.”
Masanaga did not acknowledge the apology and walked out.
Kosehira looked after him, then turned to Masaie. “Here’s some luck, Masaie,” he said. “I was just leaving when I ran into Akitada coming in. Sugawara Akitada. I expect you’ve heard of him?”
Masaie gave Akitada an unfriendly stare. “He’s a troublemaker in the Ministry of Justice.”
Akitada opened his mouth to protest, but Kosehira said quickly, “Exactly, and that makes him the very man to help you out of your predicament.”