by I. J. Parker
Akitada said quickly, “I cannot pay for information that isn’t verified.”
The other man nodded. “I only mentioned it to prove I can be useful. You need not pay me a copper coin if you’re not satisfied with the information.”
Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, Akitada asked, “Who are you exactly? What is your profession?”
Saburo hesitated a moment. “I’m nobody now, but once I was a monk, a warrior, and an informer.”
“A full life,” commented Akitada, raising his brows. “Those two men who attacked me. Did you kill them?”
The ugly man shook his head. “The first one bled badly, but that was an accident. Call it age and lack of practice. The angle wasn’t right and I had no time to move. His friend must’ve helped him away. Anyway, their tracks showed they walked.”
“I’m relieved,” Akitada said dryly. “The police could have blamed me. So you went back after you left me?”
Saburo nodded.
“You didn’t by any chance find the silver I threw to the robbers?”
“No. Just footsteps and blood, and I got rid of those.”
It might be a lie, but considering that the man had saved his life, Akitada did not persist. Still, the amulet was another matter. “The money can be replaced, but I accidentally dropped a small amulet, a family heirloom. It’s important to me.”
“Sorry. They must’ve found it.” Saburo paused, giving him a sideways glance something like an evil leer. “I could try to get it back for you.”
Aha, thought Akitada, so he does have it. He said, “Surely that would be difficult, even impossible.”
The other man grinned crookedly. “Perhaps not. I shall try.”
“Good. It’s worth two pieces of silver to me.”
The ugly man waved the offer away grandly. “Don’t mention it. It’s all part of the job.”
“How did you manage to overcome two armed men so quickly? They were younger and stronger than you and armed. It almost looked like a magic trick.”
Saburo smirked and shoved a hand into the jacket that was drying on the floor near him. He brought out a curious metal disk with prongs around its circumference. It was about the size of an orange. This he handed to Akitada. The disk was quite heavy and the prongs were sharp.
“What is it?”
“A shuriken. It is thrown like a knife. It isn’t as efficient as a knife, but then no one takes it for a weapon. That’s useful when a man is caught and searched.”
Akitada gave back the disk and glanced up at the beams. Saburo reminded him of the clever thief Tora had rescued from a vicious gang of youths a few years back. “You mean you’re a thief?”
Saburo smiled. “Never a common thief. I was a shinobi-mono. These days, I’m getting too old for such work.”
“What brought down the second man?”
Saburo reached again into his wet jacket and drew out two slender black sticks about a foot long. “This,” he said, taking them apart to show that they were connected at one end by a thin chain.
“How?”
Saburo chuckled. “It’s a nunchaku.” He held one of the sticks and whirled the other through the air. It made a strange humming noise, and the cricket outside answered. Catching the flying stick deftly, he passed both to Akitada. They were surprisingly heavy.
“Steel,” said Saburo. “Small enough to hide inside my sleeve, but deadly when they strike a man’s head. Also useful for strangling.”
Akitada dropped the sticks. “So you’re a killer,” he said flatly. “Why did you save my life?”
Saburo sighed and tucked the nunchaku away. “I’m not a killer. Those two who attacked you were the killers. I did not kill them.”
Akitada grunted in disbelief, but the sound reminded him of the governor’s insulting huffing, and he cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’d better explain yourself.”
“I told you I was a monk once. It was the time when the great monasteries were jealous of each other. I was very young then and an acolyte.”
Since he did not regard the Buddhist faith with the same reverence as the court did, Akitada was not favorably impressed by this, but he said nothing.
“My monastery trained its own warriors. I wasn’t big and strong enough for battle, but I was quick and agile, so they sent me to Mount Koya.”
This did not help either. Akitada thought that the arming of monks in order to kill other monks was disgusting behavior for someone who professed to live by the Buddha’s teachings. The existence of heavily armed monks furthermore was dangerous to maintaining peace and harmony among the people and posed a threat to the government.
Saburo must have read his face, because he said apologetically, “I was very young and found the excitement of this training very much more to my taste than the constant round of praying, instruction, and meditation.”
Akitada nodded. “To become a shinobu-mono, a shadow warrior?”
“Yes. The monks taught me the skills. I was a scout.”
“You mean you were a spy,” Akitada snapped. Many people considered spying a particularly cowardly way to fight in a war. As an agent for Fujiwara Hidesato, the young Koharumaru had spied out Taira Masakado’s sleeping quarters in order to let his enemies surprise him. Masakado discovered the plot in time, won the battle, and then hunted Koharomaru down and cut off his head.
Saburo leered at him with his crooked smile. “We don’t all have choices in what we do. I was very good once, but I had to give up spying after I was caught.” He gestured to his face.
As the daylight outside grew stronger, Akitada could see his visitor more clearly. Since he wore nothing but his loincloth, he also saw that many scars made odd patterns across his narrow chest and belly. Shocked, Akitada said, “You were tortured. Did you talk?”
Saburo looked away. “Oh, yes. Eventually. It made them even angrier. That’s when they popped out my eye. After that, I was no longer any use to my monastery as a scout, and I certainly didn’t relish becoming an ordinary monk.”
“But you still carry those strange weapons, climb into people’s houses, and, if I’m not mistaken, you offer to work for me.”
The ugly man looked at him. “A man must eat,” he said. “And you need help. I thought I’d offer, but I see I was wrong about you.” He reached for his shirt, felt it, made a face, and put it on. Getting up, he reached for his pants.
Akitada faced a dilemma. He despised men like Saburo and wanted nothing to do with them, but he had been left without an attendant, and — more importantly — Saburo had saved his life. “Hmm,” he said reluctantly, “what do you propose to do for me?”
The ugly man paused for a moment to glance at Akitada. “I made a mistake,” he said dully. “The fact that you offered me food made me forget how the good people regard us. I may have given up my past life, but it appears it clings to me like pitch. As far as you’re concerned, I’m as much an untouchable as if I’d been born one.”
He sounded bitter, perhaps resentful, and this added to Akitada’s sense of having repaid a gift (that of his life) with insult and rejection. He softened his manner. “Look, I did not mean to offend you, and I’m deeply in your debt, of course, but I cannot represent the Emperor and the Ministry of Justice if I hire men with a criminal past.”
This was not quite true. He had done so before. Three of his retainers had had a criminal past when he had taken them on. Tora had been arrested with a gang of highway robbers, and Genba and Hitomaro had both killed men to avenge great wrongs done to them. But surely that was a far cry from this man, who had devoted his life to nefarious doings.
Saburo finished putting on his pants, then made him a mocking bow. “Good luck, my Lord. May you find your clerk and also the man who betrays secrets to the pirates. Setting a thief to catch a thief may be clever, but unfortunately it offends your sense of righteousness.”
He used one of the shutters for a toehold and swung himself up to a crossbeam like a cat.
Chafing under the other man
’s ridicule, Akitada watched him run along the beam like a tightrope walker at a temple fair and disappear into the darkness under the eaves.
He wondered if he had made another bad mistake.
Chapter Eleven
Ducks
Akitada dressed, tucked his remaining money into his sash, and wrote a letter home. He asked that Tora come to join him, added greetings to the rest of his family, and a poem for his wife Tamako: “Hardly parted, I long to see you again, like the white waves making for the shore.” Pleased with himself, he walked to the post station where he paid for a mounted courier to take his letter to the capital. Tora should reach Naniwa late that night or by morning.
After that, he stopped at the nearest bath house where he bathed and had himself shaved. A modest breakfast of a bowl of noodles, purchased at a stand followed, and he returned to Kawajiri to check with the harbor authorities for news of Sadenari. To his shock, they informed him that a body had been fished out of the river and that the dead man’s appearance tallied with Akitada’s description of his clerk.
Afraid of what he would find, Akitada trudged to the small building they used as a morgue. The corpse was covered with a reed mat. When the custodian turned this back, Akitada saw a stranger who had died from a knife wound in the chest. He heaved a sigh of relief. There was still hope. The custodian waited, and Akitada shook his head. A mild curiosity made him ask, “Do the police have any idea who murdered this man?”
“I doubt it,” said the man, dropping the mat back into place. “This happens all the time. A fight in a wine shop or someone is tossed overboard from one of the ships.”
“But doesn’t anyone investigate?”
“When it gets bad and the bodies pile up, the prefect orders a sweep of the wine shops and whore houses.”
“What about currents? Can they tell where the body entered the water?”
The man looked blank. “Here? Where there’s tides and river currents and ship traffic? Impossible. Besides, nobody cares.”
It was a lawless environment. And yet both the governor and Prefect Munata had seemed reasonably responsible administrators—even if they objected to Akitada sticking his nose into their business when it came to piracy. He thanked the man and returned to Naniwa. Until he got word from Watamaro, he could do little. For that matter, he was beginning to doubt that man’s probity again. Watamaro was too perfectly placed for deals with pirates or for engaging in piracy himself. He decided to spend the rest of the day writing his report for the office of the Minister of the Right.
Back in his cheerless room, he opened the doors to the small courtyard—someone had put away his bedding and closed the doors in his absence—and carried his small writing box outside. The narrow strip of veranda had dried in the sunshine, and the air was still pleasant after the rain. He spread out a sheet of paper, got a little water from the pitcher inside, and rubbed ink. After a while, the cricket started its song again.
Perhaps an hour later he was done with the report. He still hoped he would not have to send it. Blaming his difficulties on Oga, Munata, and Nakahara made him look incompetent. He started on his letter to his own superior. Sadenari’s parents would have to be informed of their son’s disappearance. This letter was even harder to write.
He was staring at the fence across the way, pondering the next phrase, when someone called from the corridor outside his room. He got up and let in Professor Otomo.
The professor wore a sober black robe that had the effect of making his white hair and eyebrows contrast sharply in the dim corridor. He bowed, murmuring an apology and a greeting. When he took in his surroundings, his jaw sagged. “Umm,” he said, flushed, and went on quickly, “They sent me here from the trade office.” His eyes went to the veranda and the writing utensils. “But I see you’re working. I can come another time, or . . .?” He looked nervously at Akitada, who smiled and shook his head.
“I moved here because I thought it best to separate my work from that of the trade office. It’s only for the short time I’ll be staying in Naniwa. And I’m almost done with a letter. What gives me the pleasure of your visit?” Otomo looked about him again and shuffled his feet. There was no place to sit. Akitada gestured toward the veranda. “If you don’t mind sitting outside, I’ll put away my papers and ink.”
“I don’t mind,” said Otomo, “but please don’t let me interrupt. Perhaps I could come back in a little while?”
“Very well, if you’re sure.”
Otomo fled, and Akitada went back to his letter, shaking his head a little. The room must look pretty bad if not even a poorly paid academic found it tolerable. He added a few more sentences to his letter, dated, and signed it, and impressed his seal. Then, he put everything back into his writing case, and went in search of Otomo.
He found him outside the hostelry, playing rock, scissors, paper with the thin little girl. His heart warmed to the elderly man when he heard a gurgling laugh escape from the sad little child. He went to join them.
“I see this little lady had the courtesy to entertain my guest,” he said, smiling at her as he fished out a penny. She took it, bowed, and dashed away. “Can she speak?” he asked Otomo.
The professor nodded. “Oh, yes. But she has little enough to say about her world, poor little flower. Her parents, or whoever has her care, mistreat her. There are always new bruises on the child. And she doesn’t get enough to eat.”
“I see you know her. I suspected as much. It’s hard to know what to do.”
Otomo sighed and glanced at the hostelry. “Young girls are vulnerable.”
It was clear what dangers the professor foresaw for the little girl. Soon she would be old enough to sell her body to travelers passing through. Akitada thought of his own little girl and shuddered. The professor was probably thinking of the Korean girls who had died in Eguchi. If what Otomo suspected was true, they were not much older than this child. It was very wrong that children should become the playthings of spoiled older men who took their pleasure in initiating them into the world of the clouds and the rain, a poetic term that had little in common with the realities of a life of prostitution. He felt guilty that he could not offer Otomo his help.
Perhaps reading his mind, Otomo said, “I came to see you about the young girl in Eguchi. And I’d like to put my very humble home at your disposal. Whatever its shortcomings, it’s surely more comfortable than your current quarters. I hope you will forgive me for making such an offer.”
Akitada hesitated. It was a kind gesture, but he did not like to move again. He said, “You are very generous, but my stay will not be long. I hope my clerk turns up today. If he doesn’t, I shall have to return to the capital.” It occurred to him that Otomo must wonder about the real reason for his move. Perhaps he had been given a highly colored account by Nakahara when he had called there.
The professor cleared his throat. “Since I’m here, forgive me for troubling you again in the other matter. Perhaps we could talk at my house?” He smiled a little nervously. “You could see it that way. It might be to your taste after all.”
Akitada weakened. “I have a little spare time just now. But I’m not at all particular about my lodging.”
The weather had warmed again, but the sun was getting low. Their walk turned out to be pleasant. Otomo explained the sights as he led the way from the center of town. They crossed several canals and passed through some quiet streets with many trees. The land rose gently, and eventually they reached a longer bridge crossing a sizable river.
“My house is just on the other side.” Otomo pointed to a roof rising among pines and other trees. It was a small building surrounded by a charming wilderness and high on the bank of the river.
“Where are we?” Akitada asked. “This is surely not the Yodo River?”
“It’s a smaller branch. The Yodo has many arms reaching for the sea. My father liked the quiet here, and so do I.”
The troubled world of violent men and scheming officials did seem far removed. Th
rough the trees, Akitada could see some fishermen casting nets. He gazed with pleasure. “How pleasant this is! You are a fortunate man.” The memory of that elegant pavilion overhanging the Yodo River came back to him. He decided that this was much better for a simple life.
“Oh, it’s very modest,” said the professor, “and the land is mostly wild. I’m afraid neither my father nor I have any garden-making talents. I had some trees removed so I could see the river from the house, but that’s about all. Come, let me show you the ducks.”
As they walked down toward the shimmering water, Akitada realized that Sadenari need not have been taken away on one of the big ships. Boat journeys in this huge river delta could begin and end anywhere.
Somewhere a monkey chattered in the trees, and from the river came the busy quacking of ducks. In a small cove, the ducks, some twenty of them, swam about chittering softly. One of them set up loud warning cries, and a violent flapping of wings and splashing ensued.
Otomo made clucking sounds, and after a moment they calmed down and swam back. “I feed them,” he said to Akitada, adding, slightly embarrassed. “They are such trusting and gentle creatures. There is much to be said for the Buddha’s prohibition against taking the lives of helpless creatures. I’m afraid my neighbors hunt them down for food, and so they have become shy.”
Akitada really liked the man. He needed a friend, and his heart warmed to Otomo.
Back at the house, they encountered a startled white-haired lady. She was slender and soberly dressed in dark green silk, her long white hair twisted into a knot at her neck.
Otomo smiled at her and said simply, “My wife. My dear, this is Lord Sugawara from the capital.”
She must have been very pretty once, Akitada thought, with even features and large luminous eyes. At the moment, she was flustered, greeting an unexpected nobleman, and without her fan. She bowed and withdrew quickly, murmuring something about refreshments.
“There are just the two of us now,” said Otomo. “My wife’s maid is also our cook, and I hire occasional help for the heavy work. “Only one of our daughters lives. She is married to an official in Kyushu. We don’t see them often.” He sighed.