by I. J. Parker
Akitada laughed. “He must think me a weakling. I thought I was in excellent physical condition.”
“Working on roads or breaking rock is not the same as a bout with the sword or some hard riding. In any case, I will find you a place in the archives where I can keep in touch with you.”
“I am not sure that is a good idea. Any close contact between us will cause suspicion. Also I must be able to travel.”
“But I thought . . .” The governor looked upset and said in an almost pleading tone, “Surely you will want to meet my son?
To get his story? Then I’ll do my best to send you away.” Akitada weakened. “Well, perhaps. If it is only for a day or two. Do you have a map of Sadoshima?” Mutobe rose and delved into one of the lacquered trunks.
He produced a large rolled-up scroll and spread this out on the desk between them.
The island’s shape resembled a large butterfly flying northeast, its body flat heartland, the wings mountainous. The governor pointed to the southwestern opening between the two wings.
“We are here, on Sawata Bay. The murder happened in Minato, a small town on Lake Kamo near the opposite coast. Okisada was the guest of honor at the villa of a retired professor there.
Okisada’s own manor is in Tsukahara, not far from the lake. The central plain northeast of us is full of rice farms. Kumo’s estate is there.” Mutobe pointed to the center of the island. “Most of the farmed land belongs to the descendants of earlier exiles. I mention this because some families still bear a grudge against the government. Kumo and Okisada may have formed allies there.” Akitada nodded. “Tell me about Kumo.”
“He is thirty-eight years old. His great-grandfather was sent here on trumped-up charges. The family has been cleared, but since the descendants had become wealthy on Sadoshima, they stayed here. Kumo now controls one-third of the rice land in the province. He also owns two silver mines. Kumo’s father was appointed high constable, either because of his wealth and influence on the island, or because of the emperor’s guilty conscience. His son inherited the office.”
“What sort of man is he?”
Mutobe made a face. “Handsome, arrogant, and fiercely possessive of the island. He regards imperial appointees as a form of harassment for the natives and claims that the non-political prisoners are responsible for all the crime. Hence his support for Wada.”
Akitada thought about this. “Who really controls Sado?” Mutobe flinched. “There is no need to be so blunt,” he said stiffly. “I am fully aware that you were dispatched here because it is thought that I have failed in my duties.”
“No, that was not the reason,” Akitada said quickly. “You are in no position to investigate this murder. But let’s not waste time. I cannot remain in conference with you indefinitely before someone will take notice.”
Mutobe took a deep breath. “Yes. Sorry. It is just that I have not slept much since . . . the murder. Briefly, then: nominally, I have administrative authority over the whole province; however, the special nature of Sado as a prison for exiles of different types gives extraordinary powers to the kebiishicho, that is Wada, and the high constable, namely, Kumo.” The provincial kebiishicho was the police department run by an officer from the capital. Their original purpose had been to assist the governors in curbing the power of provincial strongmen.
In Sadoshima, this seemed to have backfired. Evidently Lieutenant Wada had allied himself with Kumo and ignored Mutobe’s wishes.
Mutobe explained, “Political exiles are generally well-behaved, but men who are sent here for piracy, robbery, and other violent crimes are another matter. There is a small garri-son to protect provincial headquarters, but the soldiers are all local men and the commandant is an elderly captain for whom the assignment was tantamount to retirement. And, of course, Kumo controls the landowners and most of the farmers.”
“Farmers are generally a peaceable lot.”
“Yes, but large landowners like Kumo are not, properly speaking, farmers. They own most of the land and therefore the wealth of Sado. Since we must maintain ourselves and the
prisoners and exiles with their families, we need their rice, and the emperor needs their silver.”
“I see. Where is your son?”
Again Mutobe’s hands twisted. “My son is in jail,” he said bitterly.
Akitada sat up. “In jail? You mean here in the provincial jail?
Is that not somewhat unusual?”
“Yes. Well, there was some thought of putting him in the stockade, but I managed to avert that. He could have given his word and been put under house arrest, but they insisted on jail-ing him like a common criminal.” Mutobe buried his face in his hands. “Every day I fear for his life. In a jail cell it is so simple to fake a suicide.”
Akitada softened toward the man. No wonder he lived in fear of upsetting his enemies. “Would it be possible for me to speak with him without causing comment?” Mutobe lowered his hands. “Yes. I think I can arrange that.”
“Tell me about the people who were present when the prince died.”
“Okisada died after a dinner at the home of Professor Sakamoto. Sakamoto used to teach at the Imperial University in the capital, but after a visit here he decided to stay and write a history of Sado Island. He is a well-respected man, but I have wondered if he was sent to spy on the prince. If he was, Okisada made it easy. He and his companion, Lord Taira, were regular visitors at his house. Okisada enjoyed boating and seafood, both of which are excellent on Lake Kamo.” Mutobe paused.
When he continued, his voice was curiously flat. “On this occasion, there were two other guests, a young monk called Shunsei, and my son. Originally I had been invited, but I begged off. My son represented me.” Passing a weary hand over his face, he sighed. “Forgive me. This is a painful matter for me. Besides being my son, Toshito has been my official assistant.”
Akitada was startled. “Your assistant?”
“Sadoshima is not like other provinces. I came here almost twenty years ago and married a local woman. She died when Toshito was only a baby. I could have returned to the capital, but a man of my background has no future there. I decided to stay and raise my son, and the government was happy with the arrangement. Few capable officials are willing to serve on the island of exiles. When Toshito showed promise, I sent him to the capital to study law, and after he returned he became so useful to me that I requested official status for him. My request was granted last year.”
Akitada thought of his own young family. He had not yet achieved Mutobe’s status. Would he, too, be condemned to spend the rest of his career in Echigo, far from the capital and with no chance at promotion? What if he lost Tamako and found himself raising his son alone? He suddenly felt great sympathy for the pale, elderly man across from him. He said, “I see.
Please continue.”
“The witnesses were all in agreement about what happened . . . well, Taira, of course, cannot be trusted, but the others had no reason to lie. Sakamoto lives quietly, except for visits by the prince. Apparently the prince took an interest in the history Sakamoto is writing. And Shunsei is just a young monk the prince has befriended. Kumo, of course, did not attend because I was to be there. Anyway, they all claim that after dinner Toshito was left alone with the prince in the lake pavilion.
They were walking back to the house when they heard Okisada shout for help. Toshito was bent over the seated prince with both hands at his throat. They ran back and found the prince dead. Toshito denied having attacked Okisada, but he was not believed.”
“Strange. What did the coroner say?”
“His report shows that Okisada died of poison.”
Akitada stared at him. “Poison? I do not understand. Why is your son in jail?”
“Unfortunately, Toshito had taken a favorite dish to the prince. There was not enough for the others, so Okisada alone ate it. The prince complained about the taste and a pain in his belly before he died. Later, when someone let a dog lick the bowl which had c
ontained the stew, the animal died in convulsions.” Akitada shook his head. “I can hardly believe it. I assume, of course, that your son also denies poisoning the dish.”
“Of course.”
“Why was the monk there? Was the prince religious?”
“I have been told that he had become so lately. I’m afraid the prince led a very private life. I don’t know anything about the monk.”
“Do you have any idea how and why this murder happened?” The governor compressed his lips. “I am convinced Kumo had a hand in it. My son was set up. I would be in his place if I had accepted the invitation.”
Akitada thought about this. He still did not like it. “Have you made any public threats against Okisada?” Mutobe flushed. “Yes. Okisada made outrageous public comments charging me with dishonest practices. A month ago I sent him a letter warning him that I would take steps to stop his libelous attacks on me and my administration. When he apologized, I put the matter from my mind.”
“I see. It seems an incredible story. If you can arrange it, I’d like to meet your son first, but then I must try to see Kumo and the men who attended the dinner. Do you send inspectors to outlying districts?”
“Yes. One is to leave soon.” Mutobe clapped his hands together. “Of course. That’s it. You can go along as a scribe. Both Kumo’s manor and Shunsei’s monastery are on his regular circuit.”
“Perfect.” Akitada rose and smiled. “I pride myself on my calligraphy.”
Mutobe also stood. “In that case,” he said eagerly, “you might start by working in the archives. I will have a pass prepared for you. It gives you a limited amount of freedom. While you are in this compound, you won’t be locked up, but you cannot leave it alone. I’m afraid I can only offer you quarters with the prison superintendent.”
“A jail cell would be more convincing, but perhaps it is better not to keep such very close contact with your son.” They walked out together, Akitada falling several steps behind when the governor clapped his hands for the guard outside.
“Take him back,” Mutobe told the man. “Tomorrow he is to report to the shijo. Pick him up at dawn. I want reports on his behavior as soon as possible.” He turned on his heel and walked back to his office without another glance at Akitada.
Akitada followed the guard meekly back across town. His return raised no interest. Only the silent Haseo was still there, curled up in his corner, apparently fast asleep. When Akitada asked one of the sleepy guards, “What happened to the others?” he got a grunted “None of your business” in reply. He decided that the prisoners had been moved at night and hoped that little Jisei had been released. Then he lay down and tried to catch a few hours’ sleep before dawn.
The guard reappeared early and took Akitada back to the tribunal before he had a chance to eat his morning gruel. At this time of day, the merchants were opening shutters, and the first farmers were bringing their vegetables to market. Nobody paid much attention to a guard with a chained prisoner.
In the government compound there were also signs of life. The guard removed the chains, and Akitada looked about curiously. Soldiers passed back and forth, a clerk or scribe with papers and document boxes under his arm rushed between buildings, and a few civilian petitioners hung about in deferential groups.
They crossed the graveled compound to a small building with deep eaves. Its interior was cool and smelled pleasantly of wood, paper, and ink. A gaunt man, bent from years of poring over manuscripts, came toward them.
The shijo, or head scribe, was nearsighted and hard of hearing. He had the guard repeat the governor’s instructions.
“Good, good,” he finally said. “We’re very short-handed. Very much so.” Peering up at Akitada, he said dubiously, “You are tall for a scribe. How many characters do you know?”
“I’m afraid I never counted them.”
“Counting? There’s no counting required. You are to write.
Can you use the brush?”
Akitada raised his voice. “Yes. I studied Chinese as a boy and young man. I believe you will be satisfied with my calligraphy.”
“Don’t shout. Hmph. We’ll see. They all brag. The fools think copying work is easier than carrying rocks or digging tunnels. Never mind. I’ll know soon enough. Soon enough, yes.
What’s your name?”
“Yoshimine Taketsuna.”
“What? Which is it?”
Raising his voice again, Akitada repeated the double name, adding that the first was his family name.
The old man stared at him. “If you’re one of the ‘good people,’ where are your servants? Yes, where are your servants, eh? And why were you sent to me? Only common criminals work.”
“I killed a man,” shouted Akitada.
The shijo jumped back, suddenly pale. “I hope you don’t have a violent disposition.”
Akitada lowered his voice a little. “Not at all, sir. It was a personal matter, a matter of loyalty.”
“Oh. Loyalty.” The other man seemed only partly reassured but said, “I’m called Yutaka and you will be plain Taketsuna here. Come along, Taketsuna.”
Sado’s provincial archives were neat and orderly. Akitada looked about with interest. Rows of shelves with document boxes divided the open interior of the hall into convenient smaller spaces. In each was a low table for making entries or searching through records. There were altogether six of these work areas, but only two were occupied by clerks copying documents. The largest space was Yutaka’s own, and he took his new clerk there.
“Sit down,” he said, peering up at one of the shelves. He stretched for a document box, and Akitada jumped up again to get it down for him. “Hmm,” muttered the old man. “You’ll be useful for something, at any rate. Yes, useful.” Akitada suppressed a smile and sat down again. Yutaka opened the box and extracted a thin roll of paper. This he unrolled partially before Akitada. Then he moved a sheet of clean paper, brushes, water, and an inkstone toward him. “Can you read this?” he asked, pointing to the document.
The document began with the usual formalities, and Akitada quickly ran his eye over these, unrolling it further to get to the text. “It appears to be a report on the flooding of Lake Kamo and the damage done to rice fields there.”
“Harrumph,” grunted Yutaka and poked a thin, bent finger at one of the characters. “What’s that?” Suppressing another smile, Akitada pronounced the character in Chinese.
“What? Oh, well. I suppose that one’s too hard. It signifies
‘forced labor.’ The high constable is requesting His Excellency to supply him with more prisoners to help dam the lake waters.
Let’s see you write that character.” Akitada poured a little water into the ink dish and rubbed the ink stone in it. When the ink was the proper thickness, he selected a brush, dipped it, and with a flourish wrote the character on the paper.
“Too big! Too big!” cried Yutaka. “You wasted the whole sheet. Make it very small.”
Akitada selected another brush and wrote it again on an unused corner, this time as small as he could.
Yutaka picked up the paper and brought it close to his eyes.
Without comment, he laid it down. “Come with me,” he said and took Akitada to meet the other two clerks, neither of whom was a prisoner and therefore regarded the new clerk with disdain. Yutaka assigned Akitada to one of the empty desks, with instructions to copy a set of tax accounts from one of the districts. For the rest of the day, as Akitada labored, he appeared on silent feet, peered over the prisoner’s shoulder, muttered, “Harrumph,” and disappeared again.
Akitada made good progress, but after several hours the un-accustomed work caused his back to ache and his wrist to cramp. His stomach growled. After more time passed, his feet had gone to sleep, and his belly ached with hunger. Apparently he was not entitled to a midday rice break.
Or rice, either. That was reserved for better people. Near sunset, a gong sounded somewhere in the compound. Akitada heard his fellow scribes rustling paper
s and shuffling off rapidly. He continued until he had finished the final page of a document he was working on and stretched. Suddenly Yutaka appeared.
“You didn’t hear the gong,” he said accusingly.
“I heard it. Why?”
“Time for the prisoners’ evening meal.” Akitada said, “Oh.” He started to wash out his brush.
“Never mind,” said Yutaka irritably. “Give it to me and run, or you’ll be too late. Masako doesn’t tolerate stragglers. No.
Doesn’t tolerate them at all.”
“Run where?” asked Akitada, rising.
“The jail. Where else?” Yutaka pointed vaguely. “I think you’ll be too late,” he added glumly.
Akitada bowed. “Thank you. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
When he found the jail, or more precisely the jail kitchen, it was empty except for a very shapely young maid who was stack-ing dirty bowls into a basket.
“I was told that the prisoners eat somewhere around here,” said Akitada.
She swung around, and he saw that she was very pretty, with a round face and sparkling eyes. At the moment they sparkled with anger. “Well, you’re too late,” she snapped. “The gong sounded an hour ago.” A threadbare cotton robe, much too big and too short for her, was firmly tied around her small waist, its sleeves rolled up to reveal work-reddened hands and arms, and her hair was pinned up under a kerchief. Surprisingly, the skirts of a pale blue silk gown peeked forth underneath the rough covering.
“I didn’t know. I am new,” he offered hopefully, staring at the silken hem.
She relented a little. “The fire’s out. You’ll have to eat the soup cold.”
He smiled at her with relief. “I don’t mind.” Her speech was more refined than he had expected in a kitchen maid, and his eyes went again to the pale silk hem. As she moved, a dainty bare foot, dirty but white and slender, appeared for a moment.
She scooped something from a large iron kettle into a bowl and handed it to him. Whatever it was, it looked and smelled unappetizing-some kind of millet mush with a few wilted greens. Akitada held the dripping bowl gingerly away from his clothes and looked about for a place to sit. Finding none, he leaned against the kitchen wall and raised the bowl to his lips. But the mush had thickened, and he had trouble drinking it.