Death on an Autumn River sa-9

by I. J. Parker

  Munata bowed several times. “My apologies if I have offended. It was never my intention . . . and I carried out your instructions if you’ll recall.”

  “Not quite. You informed Oga, and then you and he met with Nakahara to plan your strategy. When I returned to the trade office, the three of you refused me any further assistance. The governor-speaking for all of you, I take it-told me to leave Naniwa.”

  The prefect squirmed. “The governor makes his own decisions. It isn’t up to me, or Nakahara, to correct a man of his standing.”

  There was no point in arguing about it. Akitada snapped, “What has been done to find my clerk?”

  “If he’s on Watamaro’s ship, he’s out of our jurisdiction. Messages could be sent to all the provinces and harbors where the ship calls. I take it that Watamaro has done so.”

  “In other words, you have done nothing to investigate what happened. Have you made any progress in finding out who is passing information about shipments to the pirates?”

  Munata swallowed and glanced around the room as if the answer lurked somewhere in a corner. “Umm, we had nothing to go on. I, umm, believe with the governor that the informant must be in Kyushu.”

  Akitada said angrily, “Nothing again!” and got to his feet. “I want you back in Naniwa instructing the local police to give me assistance as I need it. Nakahara will investigate his own staff, and you will prepare for me information about anyone in your district who has known ties to current or former pirates. That includes men who do business with the captains and fishermen who ply the Inland Sea.”

  “But . . .” started Munata when the door opened abruptly and a tall young man burst in. “Uncle Koretoki -” He stopped, blinked, and muttered, “Oh, forgive me. I didn’t know you have a guest.” Her made a jerky movement toward the door, then stopped and stood at a loss.

  Munata looked frustrated but controlled himself. “Lord Sugawara, allow me to present Oga Yoshiyo.”

  Akitada’s eyebrows rose. The young man turned, made a quick bow, and stared at Akitada blankly. He looked unnaturally pale, and Akitada wondered if he was ill.

  “Oga?” he asked. “Any relation to the governor?”

  “Alas, I’m his son,” said the young man. “And I wish I’d never been born.”

  “Please, Yoshiyo,” cried the prefect. “Not here and now.”

  Taken aback, Akitada looked at the young man more closely. The bond between Munata and the governor evidently involved their families. Oga Yoshiyo was handsome for all his pallor and listlessness. He guessed the youngster was eighteen or nineteen years old. “Are you related to the prefect also?” he asked, trying to find out just how close the relationship was between governor and prefect.

  The youth blinked and said, “Oh, no!” so emphatically that Akitada’s brows shot up again.

  Munata flushed and explained. “I’ve known His Excellency’s children since they were small. They are frequent guests here and do me the honor of calling me ‘uncle’.”

  The governor’s son did not smile. He seemed irritated with the delay and said, “I came to inform you that I’m leaving. You may tell my father whatever you wish.”

  Munata started to his feet. “Wait, Yoshiyo. Just wait another day. I promised your father -”

  “No! We’ve said all there is to say.” Yoshiyo turned on his heel and stormed out.

  Munata stood for a moment, then he murmured, “Forgive me. I must stop the young fool,” and rushed after him.

  As he listened to Munata’s shouts until they receded, Akitada thought of Sadenari, who was about the same age as the governor’s son. The young were often rash and foolish. But the Miyoshis did not have the money and connections of the Ogas, and Sadenari’s foolishness could not be curbed like young Oga’s. The poor paid with their lives for mistakes. He shivered and felt the familiar anger at those who enriched themselves illegally at the cost of the throne and the rest of the country. In the larger scheme of things, he, too, would perish if he made a “foolish” mistake in this investigation. Men of power, like the ruling Fujiwara clan, or like Oga and Munata, yes, even such men as the wealthy merchant Watamaro, would crush him if he threatened their positions.

  And yet he kept risking his life, his career, and now also his family. Was that courage and a desire for justice? Or was it mere stubbornness, a selfish wish to satisfy his own desires? What about Tamako and his little daughter? Would they want him to play the hero at all costs?

  What would Seimei have advised?

  Munata returned, looking agitated. He echoed some of Akitada’s thoughts. “I beg your pardon, but the young man is very upset, and I feel responsible for his actions while he’s here. When a young man is disappointed in love, he loses all common sense and may do himself or someone else harm.” He sat down, then jumped up again. “I must send people after him. The heavens know where he’s off to. His father will be angry.” He gave Akitada a pleading look.

  It was not clear whether such anger would be directed at Munata or the young man, but Akitada decided that the governor’s family affairs were none of his business. Getting to his feet, he reminded Munata of his instructions and took his leave.

  It was well past the hour of the midday rice when he reached the city, and he was very hungry. He had not been offered a meal by Munata, proof of how distracted the man had been. It had not been Akitada’s visit that had upset him most, but rather the governor’s son. And that proved that orders from the Fujiwara minister counted for less than the power of the governor of Settsu.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Evils of Gambling

  As Tora walked to the Naniwa waterfront, he got the peculiar feeling that he was being followed. A sudden turn to scan the street revealed nothing but harmless activity. No one paid any attention to him, and yet he felt it again a little later when he bought boat passage to Kawajiri-that sense that someone’s eyes were drilling holes into his back. He swung around and thought this time he saw a man’s back disappearing into an alley. Tora ran to check the alley, but only a scarecrow of a beggar was rifling through garbage for something to eat. He put it from his mind as a case of nerves.

  The regular passenger boat took him swiftly and uneventfully to Kawajiri. Like Akitada, Tora was greatly impressed with the large ships docking and the sight of more ships at anchor in the bay. Unlike his master, he postponed sightseeing. He chose a narrow street leading to a district of small shops and poor shacks. It thronged with sailors and laborers. Cheap prostitutes leaned from windows even at this early hour.

  Tora discovered what he was looking for within a block of the harbor. Squeezed between two larger buildings was a tiny shop that sold used clothing. He ducked in under the low lintel and found himself in a sort of cave where the walls and ceiling were made of clothing draped over beams, ropes, and racks. In the tiny open space sat a tiny woman sewing. She had a wrinkled face and her hair cut short like a nun’s. Peering up at him, she asked, “What will it be, handsome?”

  The light was dim. Tora let his eyes adjust a little. Recalling what his master had said about the poor needing to make a living, he smiled at her. She smiled back.

  “Can you keep a secret?” he asked.

  Her eyes twinkled. “What did you steal? Let me see it.”

  “What? Do I look like a thief?”

  “Maybe not, but you’d be surprised what people walk in here with stolen goods. Gamblers will stop at nothing.” She added glumly, “There ought to be a special hell for them,”

  He crouched down. “This is legitimate business, auntie. I’m being followed and I need to throw them off my trail. For that I need to change clothes. I’ll pay you for the outfit, but I want you to keep my own clothes for me until I pick them up. Will you do that and not tell anyone?”

  She stuck her needle into the woman’s robe she had been mending. “How exciting! Who’s been following you? Some girl who’s fallen for your looks? Or maybe her husband or brother?”

  He laughed. “No, nothing so ro
mantic. Find me some clothes that a man would wear who’s down on his luck.”

  She cocked her head. “Plenty of those around,” she said, getting to her feet. She felt Tora’s robe. “Nice. I could get some money for this. The boots, too. And the sword. You sure you don’t want to sell?”

  “I’m sure, and I’ll keep the sword. Where can I change?”

  She pushed aside a curtain of clothing and revealed a narrow space between it and another line of robes, coats, and trousers. “As private as you could wish,” she said. “Is your business dangerous? Is that why you carry the sword?”

  “Too many questions. Let me see what you have.”

  She disappeared among her curtains of clothing. Tora sniffed stale air mixed with the smell of dirt and garbage.

  When she reemerged, she carried an armful of clothing. This she dumped on the floor. “Take your pick.”

  Tora rummaged through the pile and came up with a pair of full knee-length cotton trousers that once had a black and white check pattern but now were mottled gray. He combined these with a torn shirt that was almost white, and a full jacket of a rust brown color with a large number of stains.

  “I can sew up that tear,” said the woman.

  “No, it’s perfect like that. What about shoes?”

  She studied his feet. “No boots, but plenty of sandals.”

  Tora made a face but nodded reluctantly.

  She scooped up the rejected merchandise, disappeared among the swaying, odoriferous lines of clothing. This time, she brought forth five pairs of sandals and one pair of leather shoes. The leather shoes had once been boots, but a previous owner had cut off the tops for some other purpose. Tora slipped them on. They looked ridiculous but fitted like gloves and would last longer than sandals. He nodded.

  He changed behind a wall of clothing. Then he untied his hair and let it hang loose. He had not been shaved since they arrived in Naniwa. The stubble added to his derelict appearance. He handed over his own clothes and paid for the rags. The price was high but Tora counted the overcharges as a fee for safe-guarding his property.

  She tucked the money away, looked him over by walking all around him, and brought out a square of red and white fabric. “Here,” she said, “No extra charge. Twist it and tie your hair up with this. Anyone can see that you used to wear a topknot.”

  Tora gave her one of his big smiles, twisted the square of fabric and tied it around his head. She came and stood on tiptoes to disarrange his hair, tucking parts under, so that it looked uneven. “Now you look fine,” she said.

  Tora made her an exaggerated bow. “You’ve been blessed with superior intelligence as well as an eye for fashion, madam. Many thanks,” he said, and pushed his sword into the belt, making sure that the jacket covered it. Then he headed for the door.

  “What do I do with your stuff if you don’t come back?” she called after him.

  “If I’m not back in a week, you can sell it.”

  As he walked away, he realized that she did not expect him to be back and thought about what lay ahead. If all went well, he should be done in a day, perhaps two. He carried very little money, but even this could spoil his plan. He stepped behind a shed and secreted the two silver pieces between the leather and lining of his shoes. When he reemerged into the street, he collided with a man who was hurrying past. Tora called an apology after him, but the man neither turned nor acknowledged it. He disappeared around the next corner. Tora shook his head and walked on. There had been something familiar about that thin, angular back in its non-descript gray jacket and pants. Still, half of the inhabitants of the poorer quarters of any city were scrawny and dressed in old clothes. He looked down at his own outfit with some complacency. It marked him as a poor man but it was colorful and gave him a certain presence. Plus, he was tall and muscular. All quite useful for this adventure.

  After a while, he stopped to ask a small boy the way to the Hostel of the Flying Cranes. The grimy child pointed to a side street up ahead. Tora approached the hostel from the front. When he passed an old woman enthroned on an upturned basket beside her front door, it occurred to him she must be the one who had seen Sadenari leaving with the sailors from the Black Dragon. He gave her a smile and a nod.

  “Stop a moment to talk to a lonely granny,” she cried. “What’s your rush? Come give Granny a kiss, you handsome dog!”

  Tora laughed and did as she asked. With the speed of a striking adder, her hand darted to his groin, and he jumped back several feet. She cackled. “As skittish as a virgin! With such fine jewels, you needn’t be shy, handsome. I’ve a good mind to take you to bed.”

  Tora flushed with the shock. “Where’s your modesty, old woman?” he demanded from a safe distance.

  She shook with laughter. “Lost that more years ago than you’ve been alive. Come back here,” she wheedled. “How about just a little fondling? A little tongue?” She stuck it out.

  Tora decided the incident was funny. “Sorry, Granny, you’re too much woman for me,” he said with a laugh. “I hear you’ve got your eye on all the sailors from the hostel.” Shaking his head, he walked on. First the postmaster’s tale of the aged princess with her young lovers and now this. What was the matter with old women here? Something in the water maybe.

  Her cackling laughter pursued him all the way to the hostel.

  He liked the looks of it. This was the very sort of place that attracted men who lived outside the law. When he reached the door, he heard angry shouting and squeals. He walked in and followed the sounds to the back of the place.

  They had been gambling again. Dice lay on the scuffed floor, and a large man with a tattoo of a writhing dragon on his bare thigh had a smaller, older man by the neck and was shaking him like a rat. The smaller man did the squealing, while the big brute shouted. Coins dropped from the smaller man’s clothes. Three other men, also middle-aged, cowered in a corner.

  The shouting involved words like “thieving bastards” and “I’ll make you eat your dice.” Tora grinned. No doubt, fleecing customers was a regular pastime here, but this time the customer had caught on.

  The customer with the dragon tattoo was a brute, easily twice the bulk of the little fellow he was throttling. Tora decided to take the side of the underdog, regardless of the underdog’s offense. He waded into the fray with a roar, seized the brute’s topknot and jerked him back sharply.

  The man howled, let go of his victim, and swung around. What followed was one of the uglier battles Tora had engaged in.

  Dragon Tattoo twisted out of Tora’s grasp, leaving a handful of hair behind, and rammed a fist into Tora’s stomach with such force that Tora flew back and hit a pillar, doubling up. The pillar saved him from falling flat on his back. He pushed away and butted his head into the other man’s middle as he came again with fists flying. There was a grunt, and then the brute vomited up an evil-smelling flood. Tora waited for the vomiting to stop, and when the other man’s head came up, he smashed his fist into his face. Blood spurted, and suddenly a knife appeared in the man’s hand.

  Tora stepped back and drew his sword.

  For a moment, the action froze. Then the brute cursed long and volubly. He snarled, “This isn’t over, you bastards! I’ll be back and get you both.” Raising the knife, he made a slashing motion across his throat. Then he turned and lumbered from the room.

  Tora put away his sword. His stomach was on fire, and he felt a sudden nausea rising. Moving away from the stench of the vomit, he asked, “Who was that?”

  His audience exchanged glances and then stared at him. The huddle in the corner dissolved as the three men crept forward. The one who had been throttled, coughed and bent to pick up the coins and dice. “One of the sailors,” he rasped.

  “He’s a pirate,” offered one of the others. “Said he’s coming back. What will you do, Kunimitsu?”

  So the man he had saved was the manager of the hostel. Tora considered briefly that it might have been wiser to befriend the pirate than him. “You run thi
s place?” he asked.

  Kunimitsu massaged his throat. “What do you want?” he asked sourly.

  “What? Not a word of thanks?” Tora raised his brows in mock horror. “Shall I run after the guy and tell him to go ahead with what he’d planned for you and offer to help him? I take it, you’ve been cheating him at dice?”

  “That’s a lie,” blustered Kunimitsu. “And you made things worse.”

  The others burst into assorted dire predictions.

  Tora sighed and sat down. “I have a few coppers,” he said, “but I’m out of work and need a place to stay. I’ll play you for it.” He tried not to think of the promise he had made his wife, Hanae. But this was not for pleasure. This was part of the job.

  Kunimitsu looked him over. “How many coppers do you have?”

  Tora fished ten from his jacket and laid them down tenderly in two rows of five.

  Kunimitsu snorted. “That’s all? What about your sword?”

  “No. I might need it when that bastard comes to slit your throat.”

  Silence.

  The one who had spoken earlier said, “You’re a greedy cunt, Kunimitsu. He tried to help you.”

  Kunimitsu frowned. “Shut up, Yoshi. You talk too much.” But he leaned forward and pushed the coppers toward Tora. “You can stay.”

  Tora grinned and scooped up the coins. “For free?”

  “For free.”

  The chatty fellow clapped his hands. “Let’s drink on it.”

  Kunimitsu got up and shuffled to an old barrel. He fumbled around in its depths and brought out an earthenware bottle. Sitting down again, he removed a rag that served as stopper, drank deeply and then passed the bottle to Tora. Tora drank, smacked his lips, and passed the wine on. The pain in his stomach subsided, replaced by a pleasant burn.

  “So, who was he?” Tora asked.

  Kunimitsu looked glum. “Gave the name Tojo. I wouldn’t take his word for it.”