The Emperor's Woman (9 page)

“You cannot touch it, Akitada. I know you’re Kosehira’s friend, but this is too dangerous for you and your family.”

“Well, it’s not the first time. I’ve had to decide a long time ago whether to look out for myself and my family or hold on to my convictions. My name and the fact I’ve made enemies will always put me at risk. Since it can’t be helped, it must be managed somehow. But I came, as usual, to get some information. I’d like to know more about Lady Masako’s family.”

“Ah, yes. Minamoto Masaie. I take it he’s under suspicion also?”

“I don’t know.”

“Masako is his oldest daughter. Masaie is lord of Sagami, a very powerful provincial overlord. They say he used his influence to have Masako enter the royal apartments, no doubt in hopes of becoming grandfather to an emperor.” Nakatoshi paused. “Yes, it all hangs together. Now that you mention it, I do have some news you may not be aware of. Maseie has been called to court. In view of what you say about Lady Masako and the prince, it may mean that he’s connected with the alleged plot.”

Akitada said, “I doubt it, but that doesn’t mean much to those who wish to rid themselves of perceived threats.”

“Well, it would make sense. Perhaps Masaie found that His Majesty wasn’t interested in his daughter and decided to back Atsuhira for crown prince.”

It opened up new possibilities and confused the issue of Lady Masako’s death. Akitada chewed his lower lip. “It could be revenge, of course.”

Nakatoshi looked blank. “You mean the court blames Minamoto Masaie for his daughter’s affair?”

“Not the court. I was thinking of the Lady Kishi.”

“Kishi? Oh, Prince Atsuhira’s wife. And you think her brothers agreed to ruin the prince and anyone connected with him or Lady Masako? Well, that would be shocking.”

“From what I hear, Kishi’s perfectly capable of acting on her own. And she’s likely to have taken serious offense.”

“Ah. Women.” Nakatoshi shook his head. “What a muddle!”

They both sighed, then chuckled. Thanking his friend, Akitada took his leave.

The Beggars

S
aburo woke in a ruin, looking up through the broken roof high above him. Blue sky and golden clouds shimmered beyond the age-darkened beams and broken spars. He watched the clouds passing across the blue, and wondered if he was glimpsing a distant paradise.

Gradually, he became aware of his other senses. Unpleasant odors assailed his nose. He tried to analyze them while watching the pretty clouds. Dirt, he thought. I’m smelling dirt and rotten things. Nothing in particular stands out.

His arms were laid across his chest. He was quite comfortable except for an ache in the back of his head. He moved and hissed at the acute stab of pain that brought tears to his eyes.

Somewhere close by, someone cleared his throat of phlegm and spat. Saburo swiveled his good eye as far as he could without moving his head. No good. He saw a dark, stained wall with a doorway into deeper darkness. Nothing else.

The contrast between the golden clouds and this rotten, stinking place where he found himself struck him as ominous. Had he died? And was this his own hell, deserved for a multitude of sins?

A rattling cough and more sounds of spitting.

“Who’s there?” he croaked.

“Me.”

An old man’s voice.

“Where am I?”

A rasping laugh. “Honkoku-ji.”

Not hell, then. And not death.

Honkoku-ji was the ruin of an old temple compound. Saburo carefully lifted his head to turn it. This also hurt, but not as much. A strange figure sat near him in a Buddha pose. White-haired and white-bearded, the old man wore a red silk gown, a woman’s gown, with a priest’s stole over it. Many strands of prayer beads hung about his neck. He looked quite feeble. His eyes were dim with age and his hands resembled the claws of a chicken with their long yellow nails.

Saburo asked, “Who are you?”

“You can call me Kenko, Saburo.”

“You know me?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. What’s to know?”

Did this mad old man expect an answer? “My head hurts,” Saburo said.

“Put it from your mind.”

“How did I get here?”

“Too many questions.” With the help of a staff lying beside him, the old man got up with much groaning and coughing. He spat again, then, leaning on his staff, he limped away.

Saburo sat up and cautiously felt the back of his head. He encountered a good deal of half-dried blood and a very tender lump. Checking the rest of his body was more reassuring. Memory returned. Some bastard had attacked him inside the brothel.

Who? Tokuzo’s mother and brother could not have returned. He would have heard them. No, the attacker in the dark hallway had been someone silent and furtive. A thief.

Or rather, someone like himself, for most thieves would have given themselves away sooner.

But that made no sense whatsoever.

Saburo tested his limbs and turned his mind to another puzzle. He was certain his attacker had not been there earlier. Unless it was an accidental encounter, he must have followed him into Tokuzo’s place and waited for him in the hallway. Saburo doubted that their visits had coincided by chance.

Then why had the other man been there? The obvious answer was the gold that Tokuzo’s brother and mother had carried away earlier. But a good thief, and this man was very good, would have watched the house and known he was too late for the money.

Perhaps he had wanted something else.

Or someone else. If the stranger had watched carefully, he would have known Saburo had entered the brothel. But what had he wanted?

Frustrated, Saburo dropped the matter and wondered instead how he had got to this place. Had his attacker brought him here? Surely not. It didn’t make any sense to knock someone out and then carry him all that far. The distance from the Willow Quarter to the temple was too great.

Saburo was brushing the dust off his clothes when he realized he was missing something. The thick sheaf of papers, the brothel’s contracts he had tucked inside his shirt, was gone. And that caused him to check his sleeves.

His tools and the assassin’s needle were also gone!

So that had been what the stranger wanted.

The contracts could perhaps be explained. They were valuable. But why take the tools and the needle? And how had the unknown man known where to look for them? They had been inserted into the seams of his shirt. Now those seams were undone and threads hung loose. Unless his attacker had felt them by accident, he must have known where to search.

It began to look more and more as though he had encountered a colleague. Most likely the professional assassin Genba had tangled with the night before. The assassin had a personal interest in the Sasaya.

Saburo got to his feet, fought a bout of dizziness, and looked around him.

In spite of the huge hole in the roof, the floor of the abandoned temple was in partial darkness. It seemed to be strewn with debris and garbage. Fallen columns, leaning walls, piles of broken roof tiles were everywhere. So were broken dishes, rags, and rotting food remnants. He was in a section that still had a partial roof over it and walls on three sides. But here, too, a lot of rubble and garbage had collected. Bundles of rags were piled in corners here and there. A charred section showed someone had made a fire on the wooden floor, perhaps to cook, for an iron pot and some other utensils stood nearby.

Then Saburo remembered that Honkokuji was the beggars’ den.

A bout of dizziness seized him, and a sudden retching took him forward to a corner to vomit.

“Hey!”

The filthy pile of rags disintegrated into two separate segments that flew to either side. The shock stopped his nausea. He swallowed and stared.

Curses assaulted his ears from both sides. Other voices sounded from a distance, and here and there piles of garbage took on substance and life as if they had been magically transformed into creatures.

Saburo apologized to the two old men he had disturbed. They grumbled and sat down again. One of them had lost an arm.

“How did I get here?” Saburo asked them. “Did you see who brought me?”

The cripple jerked his head toward the left. There sat a giant of a man with bushy black hair and beard. He was watching Saburo with a wide grin.

Saburo, his head hurting as if it meant to split open, walked over. “Hello,” he said, nodding his head in greeting and flinching at the pain. “I’m Saburo. I hear you brought me here last night. Is that right?”

The giant mouthed something incomprehensible. Saburo squatted down before him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. I’m very grateful, though. I wondered where you found me.”

One of the old men joined them. “He can’t talk. They cut out his tongue. Most people don’t know what he’s saying.”

The giant nodded. His eyes went from Saburo to the old man. He mumbled. Spittle dripped from the corners of his mouth into his beard as he struggled with the words.

The old man translated, “He says you looked like one of us, so he picked you up and brought you here. He says you were in an alley in the Willow Quarter. He works there.”

“He works? You mean he isn’t a beggar?” Saburo was still trying to understand why this man had carried him all the way across the city.

The old man frowned at him. “We all work,” he pointed out. “We got our places, and there we sit or stand every day to pick up a few coppers. Jinsai keeps late hours because the Willow Quarter stays busy till dawn, but he makes good money there. He does odd jobs sometimes.”

The giant nodded and grinned.

The old man scowled back. “He needs to,” he said snidely. “Look at the size of the beast. He eats his weight in food every day.”

The giant smiled more broadly.

“Would you ask him if he saw anyone near me?”

“He can hear you well enough,” snapped the old man.

Saburo made the giant an apologetic bow, groaned, and reached for his head.

The big man mouthed something and gestured.

The old-timer nodded. “Nobody near you, but a man was walking away at the end of the alley.”

“Did you see what he looked like?”

The giant scratched his head, pointed at Saburo and muttered.

“He looked like you,” the old man translated with a grin.

“He looked like me?” Saburo stared at him.

The giant chuckled, gestured some more, and pointed at Saburo’s clothes. The old man explained, “He was your size and dressed in black from head to toe. What happened to your face?”

Saburo had to answer this question all the time. He minded, just as he minded the stares, the averted eyes, the expressions of horror and disgust. At least neither the giant nor the old beggar seemed at all bothered by his horrible disfigurement. No doubt they were used to all sorts of horrors. He said, “Some men wanted to know what I couldn’t tell them.”

“Oh,” said the old man and fell silent. The giant leaned across and patted Saburo’s shoulder with his huge paw, causing him to tumble sideways and cry out at the sudden pain in his head.

The giant muttered. The old man said, “Jinsai says to let Bashan look at your head. Come, I’ll take you.”

Saburo protested, but the old man was already limping away. This time, Saburo just waved a hand toward the giant, then followed the old beggar.

The temple had once been very large, and while it offered only partial shelter against the rain, its inhabitants had found their own means of improving it. Here and there, fallen debris and sections of wood flooring or of interior walls had been salvaged and cobbled together to make small huts and lean-tos. There they lived, singly or as small families. The whole formed a village of sorts. He was in the beggars’ headquarters. This ruined temple was the location of their
kakibe
, their guild, for they were organized like any other business in the city. And they were untouchable, and therefore outside the jurisdiction of the city. They had their own laws and rules.

The old man headed for the open courtyard. It was still surrounded by partial walls and the remnants of outbuildings. Even parts of the pagoda remained. Near the well of what must have been the kitchen area when monks still lived there, a small group of people had gathered to watch a bald man at his work.

Bashan.

Saburo saw that Bashan was one of the blind masseurs. His head was shaven and he knelt in front of a seated man, probing inside his mouth. Beside him rested an open wooden satchel. Many masseurs were blind men and performed their services by touch only. Some even practiced acupuncture and moxibustion, carrying their tools in a box that could be slung across their shoulder and chest. Such work was possible for the blind, and some became very good at it.

But Saburo did not trust a blind man to touch his head and stopped. “No, wait. I don’t need any help. I feel fine.”

The old man ignored him and shouted, “Hey, there, Bashan. Got a patient for you. He’s had a bad knock on his head. Get your fingers out of Goto’s mouth and take a look at him.” He chortled at the expression. Seeing Saburo’s reaction, he added, “Got magic in those fingers. Don’t you worry.”

The masseur had turned his face in their direction. His eyes were half closed, and he leaned his head sideways as if to hear better. He called out, “Is that you, Eino? I’m done.” He held up a bloody tooth and made Saburo gag again. “Bring him over here.”

His patient rose with a wide grin of relief, the gaps in his teeth proving he had lost teeth before and probably more painfully.

The old man seized Saburo by the sleeve and drew him forward.

“Really, I’m fine,” said Saburo, hanging back. “Thanks, Bashan, but I don’t need any treatment. Besides I’ve got no money.”

Bashan laughed. It was a nice laugh, full-throated and pleasant. Tora saw that the blind masseur was tall and would have been handsome if not for his disability. “Nobody has any money here, friend. Sit down and let me touch your face.”

Saburo recoiled. “No!”

Bashan cocked his head. “What’s wrong?”

The old beggar explained, “He’s got those ugly scars on his face. He says someone tortured him. It’s really the back of his head needs looking at.” To Saburo, he repeated, “Don’t you worry! Bashan’s very gentle.”