The Convict's Sword (46 page)

“She claimed to have seen both murders done?”

“Yes.”

“But were there other witnesses?”

“Why worry about them? It is the nurse who is your problem.”

“I believe she lied.”

Masakane stared at Akitada. After a moment, he said, “I have heard that you pursue even the most far-fetched notions with incredible determination. Sometimes successfully. But this time you’re quite, quite wrong.”

“What about the other witnesses?”

Masakane pursed his lips. “Let me see. A maid testified that father and son had quarreled before. And a monk saw the murderer run toward the house with a terrible look on his face. Ah, yes. A local overlord offered your friend employment when he heard that he wished for independence, but he was turned down quite rudely. I think the young man said he knew of a better way to get what he wanted.”

“The local overlord would not by any chance be Yasugi?”

“Very clever. Yes, it was Yasugi. Of course he is the only man of influence in the area. The Tomonaris came down in the world as the Yasugi family rose. There was no love lost between them. All in all, Yasugi behaved rather well, I thought.”

“He may have had his reasons.”

Masakane frowned. “It doesn’t matter. His testimony was not needed. Anybody in the village could have told you that father and son did not get along.”

“What happened to Haseo’s wives and children?”

“I expect they went with the condemned. It’s customary.”

Akitada almost jumped up. “No, they did not. He was alone in Sadoshima. He left his three wives and six children behind.”

Masakane raised thin brows. “In that case the women may have remarried or returned to their families. Was there anything else?”

Akitada rose and bowed. “No, Your Honor. Thank you for your time. I hope you will forgive the rude intrusion.”

“Hmmph,” said Masakane.

Akitada was frustrated. He had exhausted the sources of information in the capital. Haseo’s hometown was the only place where he could learn about everybody’s movements on the day of the double murder and find out what had become of Haseo’s family. He firmly put aside the notion that he also wanted to see Lady Yasugi again.

When he got home, the gate opened to let out an elderly man accompanied by a young boy carrying a wooden case. The older man’s dark robe and the case identified him as a doctor. Seimei, his face tense with worry, was seeing them out.

Akitada wondered if Tora or one of his friends had taken a turn for the worse. Looking after the two figures, he asked, “Who needs a doctor?”

“Yori, sir.” Seimei’s voice was as bleak as his face.

“What? Yori? What’s the matter with him?”

Seimei hung his head without answering. With a sudden sense of dread, Akitada took him by the shoulders and shook him. “Speak, old man. What’s wrong?”

Seimei winced. “It could be smallpox, sir. Of course it is still early . . . and besides he is such a strong, healthy boy . . .”

But Akitada was already running toward the house.

CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE

SMOKE OVER TORIBENO

 

 

 

It was twilight in Yori’s room even though the sun had not set yet. Reed curtains had been lowered across the openings to the veranda and garden, and Yori was surrounded by low screens and blanket stands. Inside this cocoon the little patient lay under piles of silken quilts, ministered to by his mother and Seimei. The air was stagnant, warm, and heavy with the smell of pungent herbs.

Akitada pushed aside one of the blanket stands so roughly that it toppled and spilled the quilts and robes across the floor. Tamako jerked around and stared up at him with red-rimmed eyes.

“How is he?” Akitada asked harshly.

She shook her head and turned back to the child.

Akitada knelt beside his son. Yori was so smothered by bedding that only his eyes peered out at his father. The eyes were dull and feverish. Akitada pushed aside the quilt to touch the boy’s forehead. The child was burning with fever, yet his skin was dry as paper.

“Father, I’m so hot,” Yori whispered hoarsely. “I’m on fire.”

Akitada flung back the bedding. The little body looked small and forlorn among all the quilts. Someone had wrapped a thick layer of floss silk around the hips and lower abdomen. Yori started to shiver violently.

“Don’t uncover him.” Tamako’s voice was sharp. “The doctor said he must be kept warm at all times.” She tucked the blankets back around Yori.

“He is uncomfortable,” protested Akitada. “He needs air. And something cool to drink.” Yori whimpered and nodded.

“No. He mustn’t,” Tamako cried. “We must do as the doctor said. Nothing to drink. It’s our only hope.” And she pushed her husband aside and leaned protectively over the child.

Akitada felt helpless and frightened. Instinct made him shift the burden of responsibility. “Why was I not told?” he demanded.

“I tried to tell you twice, both yesterday and today. You were too busy.” Tamako’s voice was matter-of-fact, but he knew from her averted face and stiffly held back how deep her anger against him was.

“You certainly did not make yourself very plain in that case,” Akitada snapped. “You should have known that I expect to be informed of the illness of my only son.”

Tamako rose. She was white-faced and looked exhausted. It occurred to Akitada that she had probably sat up day and night with Yori. He recalled now that he had heard her reading to him earlier and was ashamed that he had blamed her for pampering the boy. Rising also, he extended a conciliatory hand, but she pushed it away. “You care nothing for your son or me,” she cried fiercely. “You only care for your work, and for solving your cursed crimes, and for other men’s women. Time and again I’ve begged you to protect us from the illness, and each time you’ve mocked my fears and reproved me. Now see what you have done!” She burst into tears and ran from the enclosure.

“Tamako!” Akitada started after her, but Yori began to cry and he went back to his son, knelt, and took him into his arms. “It isn’t true, Yori,” he murmured. “I do care very much for you. Are you feeling very bad?”

“Yes,” whispered Yori, putting his arms around his neck. “I love you.”

Akitada could not speak for a moment. Then he said, “Thank you. I love you, too. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately, but I’m here now. What do you want me to do?”

“Take the covers off again.”

“But the doctor said . . .”

“I don’t like the doctor,” wailed Yori. “I’m hot. And thirsty.”

So Akitada laid him back down and peeled back the quilts and the boy’s robe, and the silk floss wrapping until he lay quite naked. Yori closed his eyes then, but he held on to his father’s hand. Akitada gazed fearfully at the small body, so beautifully made, so sturdy and smooth, as yet unmarked by the red spots and pustules of the disease. He allowed himself to hope.

Seimei touched his shoulder and whispered, “Sir? He must be covered up. The doctor was quite specific about that.”

Akitada whispered back, “Oh, Seimei, he’s terribly hot. What’s wrong with giving him a little relief ? And how about some cool tea or water? He’s thirsty.”

“The idea is to make him hot to raise a sweat and break the fever. And he must not have any liquids. They will cause dysentery.”

Yori started to shiver and cry again.

“But he’ll burn up or die from thirst,” Akitada protested. Yori’s crying turned into a wail.

“Sir, you’re not being very helpful,” said Seimei sharply. “He must be kept quiet. Perhaps you had better come back a little later.”

Tamako reappeared and fell to her knees beside the sobbing child. She covered him and held him, rocking him in her arms like an infant until he stopped crying.

Akitada left quietly.

For the next ten days life stood still for Akitada. Very little intruded on his self-absorption, or rather, his total absorption in events over which he had no control. He sent a note to Nakatoshi to tell him that smallpox had struck his family and that he would not be able to come in. He did not contact Kobe and abandoned all thought of Haseo’s past and the murder of the blind woman. He stayed at home but did not exchange more than the barest civilities with those around him.

There was nothing for him to say or do. Decisions about Yori’s care were in the hands of others. Tamako was white-faced and determined, her comments to Akitada brief and cold. Seimei worked silently. Neither seemed to need any sleep. They remained with Yori day and night, while Akitada roamed the house and the garden, periodically passing through the sick-room to gaze helplessly at his writhing child. He kept hoping for a private moment when he might touch and hold Yori, perhaps to make him more comfortable, or to ease his misery by telling him stories, but Tamako’s hostile back seemed forever to interpose itself between him and his son.

Later, much later, he would blame himself for not ordering everyone out of the room, for not easing the boy’s fever and his agonizing thirst, but at the time he was so torn with guilt and uncertainty that his will had become paralyzed. Mostly he kept fear at bay with restless and pointless activities. He rearranged his books. He inspected the storehouse. He got out some tools and trimmed overgrown shrubs in the garden.

The telltale spots appeared and spread. Akitada reminded himself that many people survived, and that Yori had always been a strong and healthy boy, but the ice-cold lump in his stomach did not melt. That day he did an extraordinary thing and knelt in front of the household altar to pray to the small Buddha figurine. Since he did not believe, this effort came particularly hard, but by then his fear had grown too great, and he prostrated himself before the Buddha with the fervor of an ascetic. He offered his own for Yori’s life. The next morning Yori seemed better. The fever subsided and he rested more quietly for the first time in many days. But the rash festered and spread, from his face to his arms and chest, and then over his whole body. The child was in agony, unable to speak or swallow because the blisters and sores had invaded his mouth and throat. Akitada’s beautiful son became a swollen, suppurating monstrosity, and Akitada took the small Buddha statue from the altar and smashed it.

During this period, Akitada felt a great need to be with his son, yet could not bear to look at him. And so he would come, cast furtive glances in hopes of improvement, then sit miserably by for a few minutes as Seimei and Tamako, and sometimes the doctor, tended to the moaning child, only to leave again when his stomach twisted at the suffering. He was afraid now to touch his son, for even the small hands were grotesquely swollen and disfigured. The slightest contact caused him pain. He looked at Tamako and was ashamed. Her face was a weary mask, her lower lip swollen and bloodied from biting it whenever she had to handle the screaming Yori, yet she persisted. He marveled at her strength and his own weakness.

His inadequacy made him very humble. He asked Tamako if he might read to Yori. She nodded without looking at him. They had exchanged so few words since Yori’s illness began that they were like ill-met strangers. Akitada read to Yori without comprehending the stories and without response from the child. When Yori was awake, he stared with glazed eyes at the ceiling and whimpered a little now and then, but most of the time he seemed asleep or semicomatose. Akitada would pause and gaze at him, wondering if he was seeing death, and drop the book to rush from the room. Later it occurred to him that music might be more soothing. He brought his flute and sat, playing tune after tune, always ending with a lullaby Yori used to love as an infant, convincing himself that the sound eased the pain and put him to sleep.

The moments of hope were particularly dreadful: If the child had a more restful night, or took a few sips of rice gruel, or if the doctor did not express any unease, Akitada was filled with irrational joy. In fact, the doctor was a ceaselessly optimistic fellow whose many visits Akitada gladly paid for because they made him think—however briefly—that Yori was improving. But each hope was crushed, and each time death was closer and more certain, until even the most credulous father must abandon false expectations—and Akitada was not a credulous man.