Island of Exiles (21 page)

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.

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. If 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.

Akitada’s speech caused Sakamoto to narrow his eyes and look at him more sharply. Then he unfolded the letter and glanced at it. “Oh, bother!” he grumbled. “I have absolutely nothing to add to the case. Well, you’d better come along while I respond to this. I see he expects a reply.” They went to the room overlooking the lake, evidently Sakamoto’s study, and comfortably though plainly furnished with well-worn mats, old bookcases, and a large desk with writing implements and a stack of paper. Two screens warded off cold drafts and a large bronze brazier the chill of winter.

Today there was no need for either. The sun shone brightly outside and no breeze stirred the trees. As Sakamoto reread the letter, Akitada watched the pavilion. Kumo still leaned on the balustrade, looking across the lake. It struck Akitada that the pavilion was perfectly suited for plotting treason. It was surrounded by open ground or water, assuring absolute privacy to anyone in the pavilion. No doubt that was why Kumo and Sakamoto had been talking there now. Akitada wished he could have heard their conversation.

Sakamoto gave a grunt, and Akitada took his eyes from the pavilion. The professor was frowning, almost glowering at him.

“Who exactly are you?” he asked. “Have we met before?

Osawa never had a personal secretary on previous visits.” Apart from their belligerent tone, the questions were probably due to Kumo’s visit. Kumo had shown a suspicious interest in the fact that they were headed for Minato. But Akitada had to answer and thought it best to stick to the original story. Whatever Kumo suspected, he could have no proof that Akitada was not what he pretended to be, or that Osawa’s trip was somehow connected with what everyone seemed so anxious to hide.

“My name is Yoshimine Taketsuna,” he began, patiently, as befitted his present status. “I am a convict. His Excellency, the governor, being short-handed in the provincial archives, heard that I have skill with the brush and employed me as a clerk. The governor told me to assist Mr. Osawa because he cannot spare the inspector for more than a few days. I doubt we can have met before. We only arrived in Minato last night.” Sakamoto was still frowning, and Akitada wondered if he had recognized his voice. “What were you convicted of?” the professor asked.

Akitada hedged a little. “That is surely not material to my errand, since both the governor and Mr. Osawa trusted me. However, I’m not ashamed of what I have done. I killed a man who got in my way. The man was a retainer of Lord Miyoshi.”

“Miyoshi?” Sakamoto’s eyebrows rose. A series of expressions passed across his face, surprise, curiosity, and perhaps relief. “What do you mean, he got in your way?” Akitada looked past him. “My object was Lord Miyoshi. I consider him a traitor.”