and left town. The one we have now disappears whenever they show up.’
‘But vendors still do a good trade. The gang can’t be too bad.’
‘As I said, we keep an eye open. Take my word, they’re as bad as can be.’
Yes, perhaps they were. The stick-fighting incident might have been a prank that got out of hand, and the rest was mere hooliganism, but the fact that they had gold to spend suggested that they earned it by committing far more serious crimes. Akitada said, ‘I take it you haven’t heard about any young monks joining them?’
‘Oh, no. How could such a one forget the Buddha’s teachings and do such things?’ She eyed Akitada’s empty bowl. ‘You know, that reminds me: one of my best customers is a woman whose son is a monk. She comes regular and always eats three bowls of my noodles.’
He quickly handed his bowl over for a refill.
‘You looked like you needed some food,’ she said with a satisfied nod as he raised the bowl to his mouth. ‘Like I said, this woman, she loves my noodles. Only the rich can afford to put on fat like that. She says she’s come down in the world, but that her son will be a great man some day and she’ll live in a mansion with many servants again. She put her boy in a monastery to have him taught because she can’t afford a university.’
It was a stretchout Akitada asked anyway, ‘What’s her name?’
‘She’s just a customer, but I’ll ask her next time. You’d know her anywhere. She’s so fat she’s got to lean on a child to walk.’
That image made Akitada feel uncomfortably full. What had he been thinking of to let this clever noodle woman con him into buying three bowls? He quickly handed back the empty bowl, paid, and walked away.
Noting glumly that the clouds just seemed to hang there, he decided to spend the time until the market closed by checking out some of Tora’s other recent haunts.
He found the warehouses easily, and like Tora he smelled the characteristic sour odor of fermented rice. The gang’s warehouse looked deserted, its gate leaning drunkenly and only confused tracks marking the dry dirt in front. Looking up and down the narrow lane first to make sure he was alone, Akitada slipped into the yard.
His steps sounded overly loud as he walked up to the splintered door. He reminded himself that the worthless rascals were responsible for Tora’s festering wound and reached down to pull the knife from his boot before opening it. There was a sudden clatter in the darkness, and he jumped back. When nothing else happened, he walked in cautiously, letting his eyes adjust to the murk. Something darker than the gloom materialized near his feet with a yowl and streaked off to the outside. Before he could catch his breath, a second shadow flew past and also disappeared outside.
Cats.
Ashamed, he took a deep breath to calm the frantic beating of his heart and looked around. The light was minimal, but the warehouse did not seem to contain any other creatures. He put the knife back in his boot and circled the open space. An unpleasant smell joined the yeasty one of malt. The odors of rotting flesh and excrement.
He walked gingerly, looking at the scuffed and bloodstained dirt floor, until he reached the larger stains beneath the iron hook that must have held the captive Jirokichi. A few flies still remained and buzzed up lazily. No one seemed to have attempted hiding the evidence by cleaning up the place.
It sickened him that what had happened here would go unpunished. Neither he nor Tora could go to Kobe to report.
Akitada made a half-hearted inspection of the few remnants of the sake trade. Evidence of formerly stored rice was everywhere. When he picked up one empty, broken bag and shook it, a few dark purple grains fell out: malt rice, used to start fermentation. They joined other dark droppings on the dry, sandy floor. Mice or rats had been at work, and that explained the cats he had disturbed. A number of rice wine casks and large vats were empty, and so were various boxes. The handcarts that had once served in delivering goods to brewers were mostly in need of repair. The warehouse had not been used for its intended purpose for a while, yet it might be interesting to find out who owned it.
Its more recent occupants had left their own marks. The remnants of past meals still coated some earthenware bowls, and sake cups lay scattered on the ground. Someone had left a colorful jacket behind, and a pair of dice rested in one of the sake cups. Near the door was another small pile of items: a closed charcoal brazier with a handle, the type maids used to carry live charcoal from one building to another; two stoppered earthenware pitchers; and a cloth bag.
Akitada picked up one of the pitchers. It was full. So was the other. He thought at first they must contain rice wine, but when he pulled out the wad that stopped the narrow mouth, the liquid inside was dark and viscous and smelled like cheap oil. Lamp oil was a useful item if the gang had spent much time here after dark, but two large pitchers of oil were certainly a lot to keep one small lamp lit. He checked the cloth bag. It contained stuffing of the type used in quilted covers and winter clothing, plus a small container of flints. The charcoal brazier was empty except for some ashes.
There was no longer any doubt. He was standing in the head-quarters of the gang that had been setting the fires. A small group of street kids had terrified the capital into believing that the gods were punishing the country. Could they have hoped to topple the chancellor’s government? It was not likely. But when Tora and Jirokichi had come too close, they had caught Jirokichi and tried to kill Tora. They would have succeeded if another gang had not interfered.
That was interesting, but not reassuring. The young ‘monk’ Akitada hoped to restore to Abbot Shokan was most likely involved up to his handsome ears. If caught, he would be arrested and sent into exile and probable death.
And Shokan would be grievously embarrassed by this discovery and furious with Akitada.
He paused to listen. He was not safe here.
Something in the air of the warehouse changed subtly. It seemed dimmer, and there was a moldy smell. Akitada sniffed and looked around without being able to account for it. Then he heard a faint rushing sound, not unlike the distant roar of the sea. A soft plinking noise came from right above his head. He looked up into the darkness of rough beams. The plinking repeated, then multiplied, became a steady drumming… and he realized he heard the rain on the roof.
Finally, it had come, rushing and gurgling, to soak the land.
Akitada ran outside to watch it falling in silvery sheets, pock-marking the dry earth, covering the roofs and walls of buildings with glossy darkness. The trees turned a deeper green and danced gently in the shower.
His spirits lifted. The rain seemed to him to wash away the evil he had found inside. Surely that meant the gods had not forsaken them. There would be a good rice harvest after all. And the fires would cease.
He let the warm drops run down his face and lifted his hands to the cloudburst. The world became misty. The warm earth and the many roofs of the city that had been baking in the sun gave up their heat in steam. Finally, the summer rains had come.
Laughing softly to himself, he walked away from the warehouse. Even for him, hope was still possible.
He arrived at the Fragrant Peach drenched, but full of new energy and determination.
He knew from Tora’s report that this dirty dive was a hangout for criminals. These days, criminals organized much like tradesmen and merchants did. They formed brotherhoods that protected their members. Akitada thought that Tora had tangled with two different gangs: the one to which the three deaf mutes belonged, and the other, made up of young men in their early twenties or younger. The precise connection between the two gangs was not clear. The deaf mutes had attacked the arsonists to rescue Jirokichi, but they had then allowed the youths to escape. He would have to be careful.
He was not the only one who had ducked in from the shower that continued outside. The atmosphere was dim, smoky, and smelled of wet dog. Several damp locals sat chatting around a fire that put out more smoke than light, and the young waitress was serving them wine and bowls of pickles.
Since she played a significant role in Tora’s story, Akitada watched her a moment and decided she was a hardened criminal in spite of her youth and prettiness. They started their lives of crime young in these unsavory parts of the city. Even though she had seemingly helped Tora free Jirokichi, Akitada placed no trust in her.
The other customers were poor laborers, though a few looked like cut-throats. None were younger than twenty years.
He walked forward looking for a place to sit and saw that there was another part of the room: a raised section covered with worn mats. A single oil lamp cast its light on a youth. Akitada’s jaw dropped. There, in lonely
