The Fires of the Gods sa-8

by I. J. Parker

  ‘Wasted our time,’ said one of the youths and kicked Jirokichi in the kidneys.

  ‘Maybe not,’ said the leader. ‘He left it at home. Up, you turd,’ he told Jirokichi.

  Jirokichi stayed on the ground, rolled up in a ball and trembling. One of the youths grabbed him by an arm and jerked him upright. Another slapped his face with both hands until tears, snot, and blood dribbled down on Jirokichi’s bony chest.

  ‘Where’s your place?’ demanded the leader.

  ‘B-by the f-fox shrine.’

  The leader slapped him only once this time. ‘What fox shrine, turd?’

  ‘Umajiro koji.’

  ‘Well? Are you going to take us there or not?’ the leader asked. Jirokichi moaned and nodded. He tried to take a step, but crumpled.

  ‘Wipe his face and put his jacket back on,’ snapped the leader, ‘Walk him between you. Arms around his shoulders. Like friends walking home a drunk.’

  They did, and Jirokichi hung between two of them, legs bent and head drooping.

  The leader seized Jirokichi’s topknot and jerked his face upward to show him a knife. Jirokichi blinked. ‘If you try to call for help, you’re dead. Understand?’

  Jirokichi drooled a little, but nodded again. He accepted that he would probably die anyway.

  Tora wore old clothes that were slightly too small and ripped in places where his muscular arms and chest showed to best advantage. His loose hair was tied up in a twisted rag, and he strode through the city with the bearing of a man who could handle himself in any situation.

  He felt almost well again. His breathing had returned to normal, and the blisters on his hands had scabbed over. He planned to find the gang of young thieves. The money the bastards had stolen from him had been a small fortune, and the fact that he had been attacked in such a brazen manner in a decent neighborhood rankled.

  His destination was the warren of poor tenements that adjoined the Western Market and the deserted ruins and barren fields where the capital’s criminals lived like animals in their burrows. Not even the armed constables of the city’s police went there willingly. He did not really think he would find the culprit and get his winnings back, but at least he could get information about youth gangs for the police, and that might teach the young bastards a lesson.

  When he reached the outskirts, where shacks and warehouses were interspersed with large open areas, he kept a sharp eye on the people he saw. They were poor laborers and their families and outcasts, scrabbling through the garbage of ordinary people to make a living. Not all were criminals, but frequently a father, brother, or son provided for the family with ill-gotten income and was caught, and so all of them hated the police and officials. That was the main reason Tora was dressed in rags. He hoped to be taken for a tough, a street fighter they wouldn’t dare jump in some dark alley.

  Even so, he still met some hostile looks from the men. Outside one of the plank huts, a skinny girl with a small child tied to her back gave him a gap-toothed smile and sang out, ‘What’s your hurry, handsome? Why don’t you stay awhile?’ Tora quickly turned the corner and walked through a series of dingy alleys with ragged clothing drying on broken fences and hungry dogs barking at him. Where he emerged, a ruined temple, part of its roof collapsed, rose from a grove of trees. He turned that way and almost immediately encountered an oddly assorted group of people.

  Five young men in flashy clothing accompanied an older man, who seemed to be having trouble walking. A drunk? Tora had little faith in the charitable nature of the young in this part of town. He had once been their age and poor and had had no regard for anyone else. The young are first of all survivors. Here, in the capital, they were frequently raptors. As he got closer, he saw that the man they supported had been beaten. There were bloodstains on his jacket, and his face was swollen. And they were not supporting him. They were forcibly taking him somewhere.

  Their prey was middle-aged, short and frail, his clothes a grayish brown. He did not look strong enough to tackle even the smallest of the five louts.

  Tora gauged their strength. Five of them, young and tough-looking. No doubt they carried knives. They were probably no better than the thieves that had taken his money.

  He was unarmed. Bad odds, though he outweighed the biggest one and knew a good deal about fighting. Their victim would be no help. On a second glance, he looked like a crook himself. Perhaps the youths had merely repaid him for something he had done to them or their families.

  But Tora did not like it when the young and strong abused the weak. He slowed and stepped in their path.

  The tallest youth, walking behind, moved around the two who held the beaten man. ‘Get out of the way,’ he said in a threatening manner.

  Tora grinned and raised both hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Taking your old uncle home from the wine shop?’ he asked. ‘Got into a little trouble, did he?’

  The tall one’s eyes shifted to the group. He relaxed a little. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘My auntie sent us for him. Got there just in time.’

  Tora shook his head sadly. ‘Some people never learn. Can I give you a hand?’

  ‘No, thanks. We’re five of us.’ He sounded as if he was making a point.

  ‘Help me,’ croaked their victim and cried out as one of the youths twisted his wrist.

  ‘Hush, Uncle,’ said the tall boy. ‘We’ll get you home to Auntie, don’t you worry.’ He took a step towards Tora. ‘You’d better let us pass.’

  Tora rocked back and forth on his feet, as if undecided, his eyes on the limp figure between the two young thugs. Then he studied his boots a moment before launching himself at the tall youth, swinging his right foot forward, aiming the heel at the youth’s groin. The kick was powerful and unexpected. The youth left the ground and flew a few steps back, landing on his back with an almighty scream.

  Tora had already pivoted towards his companions, the two whose hands were free. He used his fist to strike the first one on the temple and send him crashing into the dirt. ‘You’re next,’ he growled to the other. But that one pulled his knife and rushed Tora.

  Tora feinted, jumped back, caught the youth’s knife arm at the wrist, and twisted it back until it snapped. The knife fell to the ground, and the youth shrieked, cradling his broken arm.

  Tora scooped up the knife and turned to the two, who gaped, still holding the limp figure between them. They dropped their burden and ran.

  Tora surveyed the wounded trio that was left. The one he had hit with his fist sat on the ground, looking groggy. The tall one lay curled in a ball. He was cursing steadily. ‘What were you doing to the old guy?’ Tora asked. ‘And don’t lie to me.’

  The one with the broken arm blustered, ‘He’s a thief. We caught him. We were gonna turn him in.’

  Tora fingered the knife. ‘And I’m the Empress Jingo. Try again.’

  The other backed away. ‘He’s got a lot of gold hidden.’ He glanced at his companions and offered, ‘We might share with you.’

  Their victim raised his voice. ‘They’re lying.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Tora eyed the small man and decided that he did look like a thief, but a poor one. He turned back to the trio. ‘Let’s see. What should I do with you? I could call for the constables.’

  They merely stared at that suggestion. For some reason, the victim was the one who cried, ‘No.’

  Tora glowered at the youths. ‘Get out of here before I change my mind and cut you up a little.’

  The one with the broken arm hesitated only a moment, then turned and ran. The tall one staggered to his feet, cursed Tora, and pulled his groggy friend up. They limped off, clutching each other for support.

  After making sure they were gone, Tora checked the miserable heap still sitting on the ground. His shoulders were heaving, and he made a strange wheezing noise. Tora thought he was weeping, but when he bent down, he saw that the wheezing was laughter. The little fellow shook with it. A small claw-like hand shot out and pointed. Down the street, the tall you
th Tora had kicked was bent over, vomiting.

  ‘Hehehe!’ wheezed the small fellow. ‘Hehehehehe. Son o’ a bitch knows how it feels to get kicked inna balls! Tha’ss worth a piece o’ gold, that.’

  He had trouble speaking and stopped to feel his front teeth. One of them was loose and started bleeding again. ‘Damn bassards beat me,’ he said unnecessarily.

  Tora reached out to help him to his feet. ‘Who are you? Are you really a thief?’

  The other stood gingerly and groaned a bit. Then he looked up at Tora. ‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘I’m Jirokichi. And you, my hero?’

  Tora stared. ‘You’re Jirokichi? Jirokichi, the thief?’ he asked, dumbfounded.

  The other nodded. The little fellow was anywhere between thirty and fifty, for all Tora could tell. With his buck teeth, sharp features, and close-set eyes, he resembled a rodent, but Jirokichi, also known as the Rat, was a legendary and magical person, and this creature looked altogether insignificant in his plain and dirty brown cotton clothes. And his manner was ingratiating.

  ‘Well,’ said Tora, ‘whatever. I’m Tora, and you look like you could use a cup of wine. Come along. I’m buying.’

  The little man gave a chuckle and followed obediently. Tora headed back towards the market. After a while, Jirokichi mumbled, ‘Don’t believe me, do you?’

  Tora looked back, hesitated. The real Jirokichi could make himself invisible. Because of this, he could enter wealthy people’s homes while they slept to steal their gold. Among the poor, a kind of religion had developed that venerated the image of a rat, presenting gifts to it and praying that Jirokichi share his wealth with them. There were claims that such prayers had been heard, and that people had found gold in their empty rice bin or under a wooden bucket, or stuffed into their outdoor shoes.

  ‘Maybe your name is Jirokichi, and maybe you’re a thief,’ Tora said cautiously. ‘It doesn’t matter. We both need a drink.’

  But the fellow tugged at Tora’s sleeve. ‘It matters to me.’ The broken tooth caused him to make whistling sounds when he talked.

  ‘OK, I believe you,’ said Tora, suppressing a grin.

  At the market, Jirokichi pointed to a small wine shop with benches outside. This time of day it was nearly empty. Tora saw only a few other guests. Inside, a monk ate something from a bowl and two old men drank wine and played go. Outside, a shifty-eyed man sat and watched the crowd. He gave them a brief glance, then turned his attention back to the market.

  Jirokichi lowered himself gingerly on to the bench and shouted, ‘Hoshina! Wine.’

  A large young woman appeared from the back of the shop, crying, ‘Jiro, my little turtle, is that you?’ She glanced at Tora and then at Jirokichi. ‘Amida! What happened, lover?’

  Jirokichi waved her away and looked at Tora with a blush. ‘She’s great in bed,’ he muttered.

  Hoshina reappeared with wine and two cups in a basket. Tora marveled at her size. She was one of the biggest women he had ever seen. Jirokichi’s head would barely reach her ample bosom. She took a wet cloth from the bottom of the basket and knelt down beside the little man, touching his bruised face as lovingly as a mother. ‘You look terrible. Who did that to you, my love?’ She dabbed at the traces of blood.

  Jirokichi winced, snatched the cloth away from her, and held it to his swollen lip. ‘Don’ask.’

  Tora reached into his jacket to pay for the wine, but Jirokichi pushed his hand away. On me,’ he mumbled through the cloth.

  ‘I thought those hoodlums picked you clean?’

  ‘Hoodlums?’ cried Hoshina.

  Jirokichi took the cloth away to say, ‘No, no. I had a fall. Now pour us some wine, precious.’

  ‘Precious’ leaned over him like a pine over a mushroom. ‘My poor darling. Whatever you say,’ she murmured. She poured. ‘Will I see you tonight?’

  ‘I’m not quite up to it.’

  She pouted. ‘Liar. You’re always up to it.’

  Jirokichi blushed again and shot Tora a glance.

  She raised her chin. ‘Maybe I’ll ask your friend. He looks like he’s up to it.’

  Jirokichi gasped, then shot Tora an anxious glance.

  Tora laughed. ‘Thanks, but I’m a married man.’

  ‘Pity.’ She poured the wine, whispered something in Jirokichi’s ear, and left.

  They drank deeply and sighed in unison. Jirokichi – or whoever he was – certainly looked like a thief. Ask a thief if you want to catch a thief. His color was better, and Tora liked that the little man had not complained about the loose tooth or the pain in his jewels.

  ‘About those louts that attacked you,’ Tora said. ‘You don’t look like a wealthy man.’

  Jirokichi gave him a quick glance, then looked down at himself and brushed some dirt from his pants and jacket. ‘Whath wrong with my clothes? I’m a working man, and I was clean before those bastards got hold o’ me. Leth forget about it.’

  Tora’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. ‘After what they did to you?’

  ‘No’ so loud.’ Jirokichi looked around, then leaned closer. ‘See, where I come from, we don’t make trouble for people like us. We help each other.’

  Tora snorted. ‘After what those cruel bastards did to you?’

  Jirokichi frowned. ‘They’ll be taken care of.’

  Tora changed the subject. ‘I take it you only steal from the rich to give to the poor?’

  Jirokichi ignored the sarcasm. He poured more wine, drank, and felt his tooth again. ‘Rich people steal our rice and our labor. I’m taking back what belongs to us,’ he explained.

  He seemed serious, but Tora did not believe him. ‘What if someone turns you in to the police?’

  Jirokichi raised his shoulders. ‘Life is full of surprises,’ he said.

  ‘Then you live dangerously. Is it worth it?’

  ‘Yes. I’m a great man to my people. I’m an artist. I’m no different from a poet or a painter or an archer. I practice my art and polish my style. I watch and I listen. I pick my target. I plan my approach. I execute it perfectly. My body and my mind are trained like a master swordsman’s.’

  The little man was full of himself. The only thing he had practiced was telling tall tales. And he had not wanted to talk about the youths that attacked him. There was little point in it, but Tora asked anyway, ‘Since you do all that watching and listening, do you know anything about that last fire in the Sixth Ward?’

  Jirokichi stared at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Come on. You must know about the fires. I’m looking for some young hoodlums just like the ones that grabbed you today. They robbed me of a large amount of gold and silver not far from there. If you’re such a famous thief, surely you know others like you.’

  Jirokichi glanced over his shoulder towards the shifty-eyed guest, then leaned closer. ‘I know nothing about any fires.’ He glanced at passers-by. ‘See that boy?’ he said, pointing.

  Tora looked. A youngster dressed in blue and white figured silk walked past with the grace of a dancer. ‘He’s nothing like that devil’s spawn you were with or the gang that jumped me. He’s some rich kid or an actor,’ Tora said dismissively. ‘Or someone’s toy boy.’

  Jirokichi shook his head. ‘Wrong. He’s also one of the lost boys. The city’s full of them. They have to live.’

  ‘You think he’s a thief?’ Tora narrowed his eyes as he looked after the youngster. ‘I don’t believe it. The guys I want were street fighters, not pampered boys.’

  Jirokichi’s eyes widened. ‘You saw the boys near the fire?’

  ‘Not well,’ Tora admitted. ‘But they were together, and they may have a female working with them. She knocked me down and got most of my money.’

  Jirokichi raised his brows. ‘A female knocked you down?’

  Tora flushed. ‘I thought it was a woman. I was drunk and didn’t see her coming.’

  ‘Ah.’ Jirokichi grinned and nodded. ‘Careless. How much did they get?’

  Tora told him in an aggrieved tone. ‘It wa
s to pay off a little piece of land for my wife and son. I’ll never have that sort of luck again.’

  Inside the wine shop, the monk was gathering his staff and leaving. The old men clicked their go pieces as before. ‘Plenty of gold around,’ Jirokichi muttered, frowning.

  Tora grasped the small man’s wrist. ‘Come on, Jirokichi, you owe me.’

  Jirokichi jerked his arm away. He looked both frightened and angry. ‘Leave it alone,’ he snapped. ‘You’ll get your gold back.’ He got up and hobbled away.

  Tora left some coins on the bench and hurried after Jirokichi, but the little man had disappeared.

  AKITADA PLAYS WITH FIRE

  Akitada woke up to a furious anger.

  For years he had struggled against hostilities from members in the administration. Though his family name linked him to the spectacular rise and unjust fall of his ancestor Michizane and he still bore the resentment and fear that that name aroused, he had never become disloyal to the emperor or to the ruling Fujiwara family. At no time had he refused to make sacrifices in his service – risking his life and limb and the lives of his family and people. And, invariably, his loyalty had been rewarded by new demands or punishments. And now someone was trying to pin a murder on him.

  Enough was enough.

  Notwithstanding Kobe’s gentle hint to stay away from the Kiyowara case, he could not wait for others to clear his name.

  What Kobe had implied – without saying it in so many words – was that any effort Akitada made to clear himself of the suspicion would make things worse. If the chancellor himself was behind the demotion, Akitada might clear his name, but he would lose everything by interfering.