by I. J. Parker
He peered into the Bamboo Grove’s interior through one of the bamboo grilles which covered the windows.
The large room contained the ubiquitous central fire pit, where a handsome buxom female stirred a pot with a small ladle. Her guests were neither poor nor working class, to judge by their clothes. From time to time, they would extend an empty cup which the hostess filled with warm, spiced wine. Its aroma drifted tantalizingly through the grille.
The four men reclined or sat cross-legged around the fire, their faces flushed with wine and warmth, their hands gesticu-lating as they sang, or chatted, or recited poetry. The quality of their performances varied sharply and there were both loud laughter and applause. A corpulent elderly man with thin white hair and beard dominated the entertainment. He was quite drunk and his speech slurred, but he recited well and from a memory that revealed an excellent education. Akitada guessed that this was Sakamoto.
The exchanges were mildly entertaining, but Akitada heard nothing of interest and was glad when the gathering broke up.
Somewhere in the fog a temple or monastery bell was marking the hours of devotion. Inside, the hostess cocked her head, then laid down her ladle and clapped her hands. “Closing time, gentlemen!”
Akitada watched from the corner as the guests departed, then followed them.
The four men stayed together for a little, chatting and breaking into snatches of song, and then, one by one, turned off toward their homes. Eventually only the professor was left. He seemed to have difficulty walking and was talking to himself as if he were still carrying on a conversation with his friends.
For some reason, the cool night air turned what had seemed mild inebriation into staggering, falling-down drunkenness, and Sakamoto proceeded homeward by starts and stops, with Akitada following behind.
In this manner they passed through the village and were still a distance from his villa when the professor suddenly rolled into a ditch and stayed there.
The rain had filled the ditches with water, and when Akitada caught up, he found Sakamoto face down and blowing bubbles while his hands scrabbled at the sides of the muddy gully. Jumping in, he hauled him out, a strenuous job since the man was heavy and his water-soaked robe added more weight. Once he sat on the side of the road, Sakamoto looked considerably the worse for wear, his face and beard covered with mud, and wet leaves and weeds sticking out of his topknot. He gagged, coughed up water and wine, then vomited copiously, holding his belly. Akitada helped the process along by slapping his back smartly.
“Wha . . . mph,” croaked the professor. “S-stop it. Oarghh.
Dear heaven, I f-feel awful. I’m all wet. Wh-what happened?”
“You fell into a ditch and almost drowned,” said Akitada, and delivered another unsympathetic smack for good measure.
“Ouch. Drowned? Ditch?” Sakamoto turned his head and peered blearily at the water, then flung both arms around Akitada’s knees. “You saved my l-life. Sh-shall be rewarded. S-silver. At my house.”
An invitation to Sakamoto’s house was tempting, but Akitada was tired. Besides, it might raise questions when he returned with Osawa the next day. On the whole, he preferred to remain a ragged stranger encountered on a dark night.
Putting his arm around Sakamoto’s back, he hauled him to his feet.
Their progress was not much quicker than before because Sakamoto became talkative again and insisted on stopping every few yards to recite poetry or bits of a sutra. The realization that he could have died but for the intervention of this kind stranger put him into a maudlin mood.
“To die forgotten in a ditch somewhere, how s-sad,” he muttered mournfully. “An exile in a distant land, dead on the strand of this s-sad world.” He stopped and raised his face to the cloudy skies. “All dead, every one of us, not a one left to tell our tale. F-forgotten. Gone. Like dewdrops. Snowflakes. Mere wisps of s-smoke.” Bursting into tears, he clutched Akitada’s hand and peered up at him blearily. “You’re a young man. Wh-what’s your name?”
“I have no name,” Akitada said, hiding a smile.
“No name?” Sakamoto pondered this, then nodded wisely.
“M-much better not to have a name.” Stepping away from Akitada, he flung his arms wide and recited, “ ‘Oh you, who now have gone to dwell among the clouds, do you still call yourself by the old name?’ ”
Akitada took hold of him firmly and managed to take him a little way before Sakamoto stopped again.
“He died well, you know. A warrior’s death. But what good is it now? S-so sad. All of life is a road towards death.” He nodded to Akitada and recited in a tragic voice, “ ‘I, too, am already deeply entered on the pathway of the gods and wonder what lies beyond.’ Do you think I shall find him there?”
“Find whom?”
“Him. My true sovereign. Oh, never mind.” He clutched at Akitada’s arm. “I’m sleepy. Take me home.” Akitada shared the feeling. He was exhausted himself. Fortunately, Sakamoto was no more trouble after that, and his servant received him with the unsurprised expression of long-suffering. Hardly glancing at the muddied figure of Akitada, who wisely kept his face in the shadow, he supported his master with one arm and fished a single copper coin from his sash.
Handing this to Akitada with a curt, “Thanks,” he slammed the gate in his face.
So much for the promised silver, Akitada thought, adding the copper to his small supply, then turned his steps toward the inn.
But soon he stepped off the stony roadway and continued on the grassy strip next to the ditch. In the silence, he now heard it clearly: someone else’s steps softly crunching on the gravel.
He thought that he had been trailed for quite a while. At first he had paid no attention. Others had the same right as he to take a stroll before bedtime. And when he had followed Sakamoto, he had assumed another reveler was on his way home. But now, on this quiet street leading to the lakeside villas, he knew someone had been watching and following them, and had done so from the time they left the Bamboo Grove.
The steps ceased abruptly. Either the other man had stopped or, like Akitada, he was walking on the soft grass. Akitada stepped back into the street and resumed his walk but increased his speed. As soon as he reached the first houses of Minato, he slipped into a narrow alley between two buildings and waited.
Nothing happened.
The other man was too wily. Well, he had time, and his pursuer had two choices. He could either give up the pursuit and go home, or he could come and investigate what had become of Akitada. A long time passed. The great bell at the temple sounded again, its deep peal muffled in the mist. It was wet where Akitada crouched; cold water dripped steadily down his back from the roof of one of the houses. He moved a little, but found more drips, and his legs began to cramp. Rising to his feet, he decided to give up, when he heard the crunching of gravel again.
The small man in the brown clothes walked past. He was almost close enough to touch and scanned the houses opposite.
For a moment, Akitada was tempted to jump out and force some answers from him, but he knew that the man would simply deny having followed him. The other’s face was not visible, but Akitada knew he was the birdlike individual he had seen earlier at the shrine. And now he noticed also that this man had a very slight peculiarity in his gait. His right leg seemed stiffer than the left.
Keeping to the dark shadows of the houses, Akitada followed silently, but eventually he lost him to the darkness.
Somewhat uneasy, he returned to the inn and let himself quietly into the kitchen, where he took off his wet shirt and pants and reassured himself that the flute was safe. Then he slipped into the bedding, falling instantly into an exhausted sleep.
CHAPTER TEN
THE PROFESSOR
The next day Osawa had a cold.
Akitada became aware of this when their hostess, surprisingly rosy and handsome in a brightly colored cotton robe and with her hair tied up neatly, shook him awake because she had to start the fire and rush hot gruel
and wine to Osawa’s room.
She seemed preoccupied, and he got up quickly, dressed in his dry blue robe, put away his bedding, and laid the fire for her.
Then he went outside to get water from the well. The sky had cleared overnight, and a fresh breeze blew from the ocean, reminding him of the distance, in more than one sense, between himself and his family. But he put aside the troubling thoughts; the business at hand was the murder of the Second Prince.
Drawing the water and carrying the pail into the kitchen, he pondered the ramblings of the drunken professor, but could make nothing of them.
Having finished his chores, Akitada washed himself and retied his topknot. His beard itched and he wished for a barber, but the facial hair was his best disguise in the unlikely case that someone here knew him from the capital or from Echigo. It occurred to him to check his saddlebag in the kitchen. His own robe was still inside, tightly folded as he had left it. He slid a finger inside the collar and felt the stiffness made by the documents. Satisfied, he tucked the flute inside the robe and closed the saddlebag. Then he fortified himself with the rice dumpling offered by the hostess, who was assembling a tray for Osawa, and went to have a look at Minato by daylight.
This morning Minato sparkled freshly after the rain and seemed an ordinary, pleasant place after all. Akitada saw no sign of his shadow from the night before and wondered whether fatigue and the eerie, misty evening had made him imagine things. Shops were opening, and people swept in front of their doors or walked to work. The temple doors stood wide, and a young monk was setting out trays of incense for early worship-pers. Only the shrine lay as silent as the night before behind its grove of trees and thick bamboo.
Akitada turned down the street to the Bamboo Grove. Before him the lake stretched like a sheet of glistening silver. Fishermen’s boats were plying their trade in the far distance, and closer in some anglers trailed their lines in the placid waters. And everywhere gulls swooped, brilliant flashes of white against the azure sky, their piercing cries a part of the freshness of the morning.
To the northwest, Mount Kimpoku loomed, its top bright in the sun. It reminded him of the tall and striking Kumo, high constable of Sadoshima, and Mutobe’s choice as arch-traitor.
Kumo’s status and his influence over the local people made him an obvious leader, and his wealth could finance a military campaign. And, perhaps most importantly, his family believed itself wronged.
But the Kumo he had met, while something of a mystery, did not fit Akitada’s image of a ruthless avenger of family honor or of a man driven by hunger for power. According to his people, Kumo was modest and kind. The man who had allevi-ated the suffering of those condemned to work in the mines surely could not have ordered the murder of little Jisei.
Haru’s restaurant was still dark and silent after its late hours the night before, but in an adjoining shed a man was scrubbing a large table. All around him stood empty barrels and baskets, and a strong odor of fish hung in the air. Akitada called out a
“Good morning.”
The man looked up. Of an indeterminate age, he had the deeply tanned, stringy physique of a fisherman. Seeing Akitada’s plain blue robe and his neatly tied hair, he bowed. “Good morning to you. How can I help you?”
“You own the Bamboo Grove?”
“My wife Haru does.”
“Then you must be the man whose catches are famous hereabouts.”
Haru’s husband grinned. “I may be, but if it’s fish you came for, you’re too early. The first catch won’t be in until later.
What did you have in mind? Eel, turtle, octopus, shrimp, abalone, clams, bream, trout, mackerel, angelfish, flying fish, or blowfish?”
Akitada smiled. “Blowfish?”
“Yes. Fugu. It’s a great delicacy. But expensive.” His eyes swept over Akitada again, estimating his wealth.
“It’s for my master, who’s visiting Minato,” Akitada explained.
The man’s face brightened. “Ah! Of course. Many gentlemen enjoy fugu here. I can have some for you by evening. How many? You want them prepared, don’t you? My wife’s an expert at removing the poison. You’d be well advised to let her do it.
Otherwise . . . well, your master wouldn’t live long enough to thank you for your service.” He paused. “And his family might accuse you of murder.”
Akitada said, “I hope not. Has that ever happened here?”
“Not with any fish we’ve prepared,” the man said almost belligerently.
Akitada told him that he would consult with his master. As he returned to the inn, he wondered if Haru’s expertise with blowfish had come in question recently.
Osawa was up and freshly shaven but complained of feeling too ill to leave his room. He handed Akitada the governor’s letter and told him in a weak voice to deliver it to Sakamoto, making his apologies. “It’s not as if I were a common messenger,” he sniffed,
“or as if there were any need to discuss anything with Sakamoto.
Just hand the letter to a servant and wait for a reply. Sakamoto may, of course, rush right over here to apologize for that lout of a servant who turned us away so rudely last night, but I have no intention of moving to his house. I’m very comfortable right here.” And so he was, sitting in a nest of bedding with a brazier warming the air, a flask of wine beside him, and the remnants of his morning meal on a tray. Akitada took the letter with a bow and departed happily.
This morning there was activity at the Sakamoto house. The gates stood wide open, revealing a rather weedy courtyard and dilapidated stables. A groom was walking a handsome horse around the courtyard. Evidently another guest had arrived. The professor would be relieved to hear that Inspector Osawa preferred the inn to his villa. Akitada saw that the horse, a very fine dappled animal, had been ridden hard. Then something about it struck him as familiar. Yes, he was almost certain that this was one of the horses from Kumo’s stable. Had Kumo himself followed them to Minato? But Kumo’s groom had told the mine foreman that Kumo would want to inspect the fire.
“Hey, you!” One of the house servants, a fat youth who seemed to be eating something, waved to him from the house.
“What do you want?” he demanded when Akitada came to him.
Akitada held up his letter and explained.
The fat youth took another bite from his rice dumpling, chewed, and thought about it. “Wait here,” he finally told him, and waddled off. Akitada walked into the stone-paved entry.
Scuffed wooden steps led up to a long corridor. Somewhere a door creaked and slid closed. He heard the sounds of conversation, and then the door squeaked again. The fat youth reappeared, followed by the long-faced, middle-aged servant from the night before. He still looked ill-tempered. Holding out his hand, he said in a peremptory tone, “You can give it to me. I’m in charge. I’ll see the master gets it.” Akitada shook his head. “Sorry. I’m to give it to Professor Sakamoto in person. Tell him it’s from the governor.” The long face lengthened. “The professor has guests. You’ll have to come back later.”
Akitada was intrigued by a conference which was so important that Sakamoto could not be interrupted by a messenger from the governor. Drawing himself up, he said sternly, “Do you mean to tell me that you did not inform your master of Inspector Osawa’s visit yesterday?”
Recognition dawned belatedly, and the man flushed. “Oh.
Well, no. There hasn’t been time. The professor did not get back until quite late.” And then in no condition to take in such news, thought Akitada. “And this morning we had an unexpected guest. If you would tell your master, I’m sure he’ll understand.
Perhaps the professor could call on him later?” This did not suit Akitada at all. He said, “Don’t be a fool, man.
Inspector Osawa is still angry about being turned away yesterday.
He asked me to deliver this personal message from the governor because he is ill, a fact he blames entirely on being refused shelter by you. The message is bound to be important and urgent. I
f you make me go back to him with another refusal, he will return to Mano and report the snub. Your master will be in trouble.”
That shook the surly servant. He glared at the fat youth, who was leaning against the wall picking his nose, told Akitada to wait, and disappeared. Akitada ignored the hulking lout and sat down to remove his boots. Then he stepped up into the house.
The corridor led to a room overlooking the lake. It appeared to be empty. Sliding doors to the veranda and garden beyond had been pushed back for a lovely view across the shimmering water to Mount Kimpoku. The garden sloped down to the shore, terminating in a pavilion which appeared to project out over the water-the pavilion where the Second Prince had died.
Two men were standing at its balustrade watching the boats on the lake. One was certainly tall enough to be Kumo. They were joined by a third. The crabby servant was reporting his visit to the professor, the shorter, white-haired man. The professor said something to his tall guest and then hurried with the servant toward the house.
Akitada hoped that Kumo, if it was indeed Kumo down there in the pavilion, would stay well away from the house while he gave his message to the professor.
The professor’s eyes looked slightly bloodshot, his right temple was bruised, and there was a deep scratch on one cheekbone, mementos of last night’s bender and the tumble into the ditch. But this morning his beard and hair were neatly combed, and he wore a clean silk robe, somewhat threadbare but presentable. He scowled at Akitada.
“What’s all this?” he said, matching a curt nod to Akitada’s bow. “My servant tells me you have a letter from the governor?
Can you make it quick? The high constable is here.” The irritable tone was probably due to a hangover. Akitada bowed again. “I serve as secretary to Mr. Osawa, the governor’s inspector. Mr. Osawa wished to put His Excellency’s letter into your hands in person. Unfortunately, we found you absent from home yesterday, and today Mr. Osawa is too ill to come himself.
Rather than causing a further delay, he has asked me to deliver it.” He handed over the governor’s message.