Seven Paths to Death

by Dorothy Hoobler

  Seikei studied the work he had done so far. Without the colors of the original, a pattern began to emerge. The path that the judge had traced with his finger now seemed the centerpoint of the scene. Everything in nature around it seemed placed very specifically, as if they were meant as signposts. Landmarks.

  Could this be a map? But what did it show? Some place around here? The mountains looked more like those in the far west. The path . . . where was it intended to lead someone?

  Seikei was still puzzling over these questions when the judge returned. “Have you finished?” he asked.

  “Nearly,” said Seikei, concentrating on his work. The judge had always told him not to hold back any suggestions, so he added, “It looks to me as if this might be a map.”

  “An excellent observation,” the judge responded. “But it seems to be only part of a map.”

  Seikei nodded. That still left many questions. “Where is the rest of it? And why would anybody tattoo a map on a man’s back?”

  “I thought we might answer those questions when we found the person who attacked this man,” said the judge. “But I was too optimistic.”

  Seikei let this sink in. “You have found that person already?”

  “The villagers were afraid of the wrath of the rice kami when the wounded man broke up their ceremony,” explained the judge. “So they did not go back to further examine the rice paddy. Just now, with the help of the headman and his sons, we found the body of the attacker.” He nodded toward the wounded man. “He defended himself quite well.”

  “He killed the man who attacked him? How?”

  “Apparently by holding him under water until he drowned,” the judge replied. “That was particularly impressive, considering that the attacker was dressed as a ninja.”

  A ninja! One of the hereditary assassins who went about their deadly business nearly unseen. Some people thought they were figures of myth, but Seikei knew differently. He looked at the unconscious man with new respect. Seikei himself had once managed to defeat a ninja, but not in hand-to-hand combat. Now he noticed that even though the unconscious man was middle-aged, he had maintained his youthful strength. Beneath the tattoo was a muscled torso.

  “What should we do with him?” Seikei asked.

  “Better not to move him,” said the judge. “If he survives, he will be able to answer questions. I’ve sent a message to the governor to send guards here.”

  “You think he is still in danger?” Seikei asked. “Even when the man who attacked him is dead?”

  The judge looked down at the man. “He still has the map,” he said.

  2

  EIGHT, NINE AND THREE

  The villagers looked unhappy as Seikei and the judge prepared to leave. Now that they were no longer under suspicion, some of them had emerged from their homes to get a glimpse of the shogun’s most trusted official.

  “They blame me for being the one who discovered the dead body in the rice paddy,” the judge explained to Seikei. “Now they will need to pay a Buddhist monk to purify the field, and delay planting their crop.”

  “But the dead man would have been there whether you discovered him or not,” Seikei said.

  “If he had not been discovered, however, a great deal of trouble would have been avoided,” replied the judge. “Most people, I have found, would rather avoid trouble than make sure the correct thing is done. They probably also wish they hadn’t bound up the wounds of the man with the tattoo.”

  Two samurai had arrived to guard the unconscious man, but they weren’t very happy either. In such an out-of-the-way spot, it seemed unlikely that they would have an opportunity to do anything useful. And the food would be much worse than they normally enjoyed at the governor’s headquarters. “How long do you want us to stay here?” one of them had asked the judge.

  “Until the man dies or awakens,” the judge told him. “If he becomes well enough to travel, bring him to me in Edo.”

  “Edo?” The samurai’s face brightened at the thought of traveling to the shogun’s capital city. There were many opportunities in Edo for a samurai to advance his career—and, as Seikei knew well, plenty of entertainment as well, if that was what you wanted. This samurai looked as if he were thinking of the entertainment.

  “The officials at the shogun’s palace will know where to find me,” the judge said. The guard looked impressed and promised to carry out his orders.

  As Seikei and the judge prepared to mount their horses, Seikei asked, “Do you think the man will get better?”

  “He is strong,” said the judge, “but I think it is more likely that someone else will come looking for that map.”

  “Do you know why they want it?”

  “Not yet. But the marks on the man’s hands indicate that he is—or once was—a criminal.”

  “Ya-ku-za? What does that mean?” Seikei knew what the numbers were, but not why they marked the man as a criminal.

  “Are you familiar with the card game sammai karuta?”

  “Three-card? My brother used to play it with his friends. Sometimes they even gambled coins.” Seikei bit his lip. The only time he had taken part in a game, he had lost money that he had intended to use to buy a book.

  “As you recall,” the judge went on, “the object is to draw cards that add up to nineteen, or at least higher than any other player, without going over nineteen.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, ya, eight, ku, nine, and za, three, add up to twenty.”

  “A losing hand,” said Seikei. He knew about losing hands. He had lost five times in a row before his money was gone.

  “Quite so. That is why many criminals use it as a code among themselves. They are, in the end, always losers.”

  “And this man . . . was part of the yakuza?”

  “Or still is.”

  “Why are we going to Edo, then?”

  “Because I want to learn more about the map.”

  That would be difficult, thought Seikei. Edo had more than a million people in it. Not even the shogun knew exactly how many.

  “Take good care of the copy you made,” said the judge. “We will need it.”

  It occurred to Seikei that someone might come in search of that as well.

  Three days later, back in Edo, Seikei discovered why the judge needed the copy of the map. The two of them were walking through a section of the city where Seikei had never been before. Most of the people here looked as if they were up to no good. Seikei saw several men skulk away when they saw the shogun’s hollyhock crest on the judge’s kimono. Unlike other parts of town, few of the shops here displayed banners advertising their wares. People did seem to be selling merchandise on the street itself, but they picked up their wares and disappeared when the judge approached.

  “Why is everyone here afraid of you?” asked Seikei.

  “Perhaps they think they have something to fear from an officer of the law,” said the judge. “People with guilty consciences always hear footsteps behind them.”

  “Shouldn’t we have brought Bunzo?” Seikei asked. Bunzo was the judge’s chief assistant, who had trained Seikei in bushido, the way of the warrior. Seikei believed that Bunzo was powerful enough to protect them from an army of thieves, if necessary.

  “Why?” the judge responded. “Do you feel we are in danger?”

  “Not exactly. But shouldn’t you arrest some of these men and see if they are criminals?”

  The judge shook his head. “There is enough work in solving crimes that we know about. If we arrested people to find out if they had done anything wrong, where would we stop? Perhaps I would end up arresting you.” He gave Seikei a look that was so stern that Seikei couldn’t help but laugh. But it was a weak, nervous laugh, making him sound guilty, even to himself. He looked away.

  “Here is our destination,” the judge said. He stopped in front of a one-story building where a small banner hung limply over the door. It read HORI-MONO, TATTOOING. The place looked flimsy enough to collapse in a strong wi
nd. The door rattled in its frame as the judge slid it open and entered. Seikei followed.

  Inside, a few burning incense sticks stood upright in bowls of sand. The scent they gave off wasn’t strong enough to completely cover some other, far less pleasant, smell. Seikei tried, but failed to discern what the foul odor might be. His attention was drawn to three shelves on the wall, on which needles were displayed. They were arranged in sizes, from very thin, short ones to thick ones that looked almost wide enough to be knives.

  Around the rest of the walls were drawings that displayed what Seikei assumed were tattoo styles—dragons, tigers, foxes, eagles, swords and numerous nature scenes. None was as elaborate as the one Seikei carried in his sleeve.

  “Hello, Kita,” said the judge. Seikei blinked, because he had not noticed anyone else in the room. On a mat in the corner, between two bowls of burning incense sticks, was what appeared to be an old kimono, carelessly dropped there. Then, it moved. The top of a head, with only a few strands of white hair, emerged from the clothing. Then two eyes, surrounded by wrinkles. It was like watching the dawning of a very old sun.

  The eyes brightened when they spotted the judge. The pile of clothing rose, though the man beneath was not much taller standing than he was sitting. He bowed deeply and said, “How may I be of service?” As he spoke, his eyes flicked over to Seikei. “You have brought me this young man, who wants a tattoo?” The man named Kita darted forward, moving faster than Seikei thought he could. He slid Seikei’s sleeve halfway up, staring at his arm as if he were contemplating a splendid dinner.

  Seikei pulled away, but Kita had seen enough. “You have wonderful skin,” he said softly. “It would be an honor for me to turn it into a work of art.”

  “Kita, this is my son,” the judge said.

  Glancing at Seikei’s two swords, Kita nodded. He couldn’t hide his disappointment. “You know,” he said, “it is written that long ago, samurai covered their bodies with tattoos showing their deeds of heroism.”

  “Not today,” the judge said firmly. “We have something to show you.” He nodded at Seikei, who brought out the drawing he had made. As he unrolled it, Kita’s expression went through a series of changes. First curiosity, then, as he recognized it, a kind of shock. Finally, although he tried to conceal it, craftiness.

  “Your honor,” he said, “where have you seen this?”

  “That does not concern you,” said the judge. “Do you recognize the style?”

  “It is unmistakable,” Kita responded. “A great master of the art created this.” He looked at the drawing longingly. “I would like to see the original.”

  “A name, if you please,” said the judge.

  “Oh, certainly this is Tengen’s work,” Kita said. “You see the way the slope of the rocks is depicted with sharp, thin lines? Only he—”

  “Yes,” interrupted the judge. “And where is Tengen now?”

  “He is where all of us will go in due course,” said Kita. “With his ancestors.”

  The judge nodded. “Where did he practice his trade?”

  “His art,” Kita corrected. “He began in the far west. I believe he did some work in Yamaguchi province, at the end of the Inland Sea. But when he started to gain fame, he opened an establishment here in Edo. Actually . . .” Kita hesitated.

  “Yes?” the judge prompted.

  “He had an apprentice,” Kita said with a sniff. “A man of little talent.”

  “What is his name?”

  “You wouldn’t learn anything from him.”

  “Much of my time is wasted, I admit,” said the judge. “I just like to satisfy my curiosity.”

  “Shotaro,” Kita said. “I think that was his name.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “I really don’t know. He’s not someone I regard as a competitor.”

  The judge looked around. “You know, Kita, this shop of yours is not well constructed. With all these incense sticks, I think it could be regarded as a fire hazard.”

  “Everybody burns incense sticks,” Kita protested.

  “Still, it is my duty as head of the Edo fire brigade to be alert to dangerous situations. If I decide your shop is a fire hazard, I must send some men to pull it down. That would be a shame, of course, but—”

  “You can find Shotaro at a small establishment on Nakabashi Street, near the river,” Kita said.

  “Your cooperation is appreciated,” said the judge.

  Kita gave a bow. “I should tell you that Shotaro is seldom there. He’s not much of a worker.”

  “Then I hope we will be fortunate enough to find him in,” said the judge.

  After they left the shop, the judge took Seikei by the arm. “Conceal yourself over there,” he said, pointing to some crates piled in the street. “Wait until Kita emerges from his shop and follow him.”

  Seikei nodded. “Do you think he will try to warn this Shotaro that we are looking for him?”

  “No. I think he may go in a different direction, toward our real prey.”

  “Who is that?”

  “That’s your job. When you find out, come and tell me. I will be at the hunting grounds at the shogun’s palace. Oh, and give me the copy of the tattoo that you made.”

  Seikei wondered why the judge would want to go hunting at this time, but he did as he was told. Sure enough, only moments after the judge had disappeared down the street, Kita emerged from his shop. After a furtive look around, he moved off in the other direction. Seikei followed.

  3

  THE UNDERGROUND MAN

  Kita seemed to be heading for the waterfront, down at the edge of Edo Bay. Because the streets were narrow and winding, Seikei had to stay closer to him than he would have liked. In any case, Kita did not appear to have any idea he was being followed. Speed seemed to be his main goal. The old man moved more nimbly than Seikei would have thought possible.

  The buildings here were mostly old warehouses. Some appeared to be deserted. Seikei recalled that the judge had said such abandoned places should be pulled down to prevent fires from sweeping out of control.

  He strained his eyes to keep Kita in sight. The tattooist’s dusty clothing seemed to blend in with the surroundings. Then, abruptly, he dropped from sight altogether.

  Seikei blinked and ran to the spot where he had last seen Kita. There was nothing here but a rickety bamboo wall, once painted red but now holding only a few remaining specks of color. Seikei pulled at it, searching for some kind of doorway. But the entrance, if there was one, seemed to be somewhere else.

  Then he stumbled over something and looked down. At his feet was a heavy iron ring. Faintly, Seikei could see the outline of a trapdoor that must have once been used as a way to unload goods directly into the cellar of the building. A thin slab of rock covered the trapdoor, making it appear as if it were part of the street.

  Seikei pulled on the ring, and the door rose easily, exposing a narrow flight of stairs leading into a black hole.

  He hesitated. The judge had told him to find out who Kita went to see. It was Seikei’s duty to follow, wherever he went. Yet perhaps it might be better to report first and see—

  Before Seikei could decide, someone shoved him from behind, and he went tumbling headlong into the inky darkness.

  The next thing he knew, he opened his eyes and found himself in a stuffy room lit only by a few candles. His head hurt, but when he tried to rub it, he found that his hands were bound behind his back.

  Seikei was in a sitting position; someone had propped him against a wall. He gradually became aware that a middle-aged man sat staring at him from the other side of the room. He wore a plain kimono, the color of stone. His face was lined and his brow furrowed as if he were thinking of some problem.

  “Feeling better now?” he asked. “You took a nasty fall.” He sounded concerned.

  “Someone pushed me,” Seikei said. “Was it you?”

  “No. Just someone I keep around to make sure I don’t have unexpected visitors. I
seldom do, but apparently Kita was careless when he entered.” The man shook his head. “Perhaps it was for the best.”

  “Why do you say that?” Seikei asked. He tested the bonds that held his hands. They weren’t very tight, and perhaps he could work himself free.

  “You needn’t struggle,” the man said. “Someone will free you in a little while. I know you’re Judge Ooka’s son, and I have no intention of incurring his wrath.”

  Seikei wondered momentarily how the man knew that but then realized Kita must have told him. “Who are you?” Seikei asked. “Where is Kita?”

  “People call me Rofu. As for Kita, he’s gone. He was horrified when he saw you. Thought you were dead, at first.”

  “I could have been killed,” Seikei said.

  “If I wanted you dead,” Rofu said calmly, “you would have been dead by now.”

  “So why have you tied me up?”

  “Well, you wear swords, you see, and like many young men you might be prone to act rashly. Someone could have gotten hurt.”

  “Now that you’ve made that clear,” said Seikei, “why don’t you just let me go?”

  “Because I have some other things I want to clear up. Can I trust that you will take a message to your father?”

  “You may rely on it,” said Seikei. “Perhaps I should do it right now.”

  “Not just yet,” said Rofu. “I understand that you have a copy of a tattoo that was on a man’s back.”

  Seikei tried to recall what the judge had told Kita. He hadn’t said anything about where the tattoo had been. “It was a copy of a tattoo,” Seikei said carefully.

  “But you do not seem to have it now. Pardon my curiosity, but I had someone search you.”

  Seikei fought back his anger. “That’s right,” he told Rofu. “I no longer have it.”

  “Too bad,” Rofu said. “Could you describe the man whose skin bore this tattoo?”

  Seikei hesitated. Obviously Rofu knew more about the man than he let on. Perhaps to gain information from him, Seikei should cooperate.