Akitada looked at the daughter. “I wondered what had become of my clothes,” he said, giving up any effort at diplomacy.
“Oh. I mean to clean them. You’ll have them back tonight.”
Relief made him smile. “Thank you, but there is no need. If I may borrow a brush, I can do it myself.”
“Very well.”
Picking up his bowl, Akitada finished his gruel quickly, then rose to bid father and daughter goodbye.
“Yes, ah,” said Yamada vaguely without raising his head,
“delightful to meet you, young man.”
“Father,” said Masako sharply. “Remember the governor’s message!”
“Ah,” said the superintendent after a moment’s puzzlement,
“yes, of course. How silly of me to forget! I shall need your skills for an hour or so. You see, I have no clerk, and a prisoner is to be questioned again. It is quite beyond Masako, who has other duties anyway, I’m afraid. So will you take notes?”
“I’ll gladly do whatever you require of me, but is it permitted?”
“Oh, yes. The governor himself said so.” So Mutobe had wasted no time to have him hear about the murder from his son’s lips. And that also explained his accommodations. Akitada suppressed his excitement and bowed again. “I’m quite ready to accompany you, sir.” As they walked across the courtyard toward the low building that served as jail, the superintendent muttered, “It’s so difficult.
One doesn’t know how to behave.”
“I beg your pardon?” asked Akitada catching up a bit.
“Young Mutobe. As assistant to the governor he was my superior, but now . . . well, he’s a prisoner charged with a capital crime. A crime against the imperial family.” He sighed heavily.
“I’m fond of that young man. He and my daughter grew up together, and I had hopes . . . but never mind.” Akitada said, “That is difficult.” He was beginning to like Yamada. His moral sense was stronger than his self- interest. But why did such a man force his daughter to perform the most menial tasks for depraved criminals?
When they stepped into the small jail building, they startled two drowsy guards, who sprang to attention. The guardroom was bare except for an old desk and a small shelf of papers, but its walls were liberally decorated with whips, chains, and other devices meant to put obstinate prisoners in the proper frame of mind.
“We’re here to see young Mutobe,” announced the superintendent.
“He’s got his usual visitor with him,” said one of the guards.
He reached for a lantern and led the way down a narrow, dark hallway.
Yamada followed without comment, and Akitada trailed behind. Apparently the visitor had raised no eyebrows. Akitada wondered if the governor was with his son.
Most of the cells appeared to be empty. Prisoners from the mainland were put to hard labor upon arrival. Mutobe Toshito’s cell was toward the back. To Akitada’s surprise, the sound of a woman’s voice came from it.
There was little light in the cell. A pale glimmer of sunshine fell through a single small window so thickly barred that it seemed the bottom of a basket. In the murky gloom, Akitada made out two seated figures. One was that of a young man of middle size, dressed in a pale silk robe; the other was an elderly nun in white hemp robe and veil.
At their entrance, the nun rose awkwardly with the assistance of the young man, and turned to face them. As the guard raised his lantern, Akitada saw a thin figure with a narrow face that was darkened by sun and weather and dominated by enormous eyes like pools of ink. She looked frail, like a sliver of discarded wood, as if exposure and illness had destroyed a former great beauty by consuming what once gave it life.
“Madam.” The superintendent bowed deeply. “Your visit honors this dismal place. You bring spiritual riches to those who have nothing else left in this life.”
She shuddered at his words. “Let us hope for a better outcome in this instance, Yamada, but thank you. I shall leave now.” Her voice was beautiful, and the elegance of her dic-tion reminded the startled Akitada of the faraway court at Heian-kyo.
Turning back to the prisoner, she said, “Do not forget what I told you.” Then she slipped past them so gently that she seemed no more than a wraith on a breath of air.
Akitada stared after her. “Who was that?” he burst out, for-getting for a moment his own position.
Fortunately, Yamada was preoccupied. He was greeting the prisoner with a friendly courtesy which the young man seemed to return. Over his shoulder, Yamada said, “They call her Ribata. She’s a hermit nun who lives on a mountain not far from here. Sometimes she visits prisoners in need of spiritual counsel.”
The guard added helpfully, “She’s been visiting him every day.”
The young man with the pale, intelligent face smiled bitterly. “I suppose that means my case is desperate. We pray together. She is very holy.” His tone was casual, but Akitada did not quite believe it. Mutobe Toshito glanced at him and asked,
“Who is that with you, Yamada?”
“His name is Taketsuna, a new prisoner. He’s here to take notes.” Pulling a sheaf of papers from his sleeve, Yamada said apologetically, “I am to ask you some more questions. The answers are needed to prepare your case.”
“You mean, the case against me,” the prisoner corrected him.
Yamada fidgeted uneasily. “Let us sit down,” he said, seating himself on the dirt floor. When the young man reluctantly sat, he added soothingly, “You mustn’t be so downcast. Your father will speak for you, as will many others.” But he did not sound as if he believed it, and the prisoner gave a harsh laugh.
“The governor is no longer my father. How could he be, when I have been charged with such a hideous crime?”
“Now, now,” mumbled Yamada again. “Sit down, sit down,” he told Akitada, then turned to the guard. “Paper and ink for the clerk.”
An uncomfortable silence fell as they waited. After a moment, Toshito addressed Akitada. “I would bid you welcome, but this prison and the island are a special kind of hell for people like you and me. So you have my pity instead. What did you do to have been sent here?”
Akitada glanced at Yamada for permission to answer, but the superintendent was again lost in his own thoughts, his chin sunk into his chest. “I killed a political enemy,” he said.
“Really? Much the same crime of which I stand accused.
With, of course, the major difference that I’m supposed to have murdered an imperial prince and will not live to see exile.” Akitada could not think of an appropriate response, so merely murmured, “I’m sorry.”
Another silence fell, and then the guard reappeared to hand Akitada a lap desk, paper, and writing utensils. Akitada rubbed the ink, then glanced at Yamada, who still brooded. “Ready, sir.”
“What? Oh. Oh, yes.” Yamada focused his eyes on the sheaf of questions in his hand. “Very well. Write: Interview between the prisoner Mutobe Toshito and Yamada Tsubura, superintendent of Sado Provincial Prison. The fourteenth day of the eighth month of the third year of Chogen.” Akitada wrote.
“Now write down all the questions I ask and the answers the prisoner gives.” Yamada consulted his papers and addressed the young man. “Mutobe Toshito, how did you come to attend the banquet during which the Second Prince died?” The prisoner made a face. “I have already answered that several times. My fa . . . the governor often received invitations to dinners given for the Second Prince. Because of Prince Okisada’s illustrious rank, it was his habit to accept these, but on this occasion the governor was not well and did not wish to make the journey. So I went instead and carried his apologies.” Yamada frowned. “Ah, yes. You are right. These questions seem to have been asked before,” he muttered, scanning the list in his hands. “Feel free to add any information you may not have given earlier. Perhaps it will reveal something to your benefit.” Akitada knew very well why there were no new questions.
They were meant to give him access to the evidence from young Mutobe’s own recollections.
“Now, about that prawn stew you brought for the prince.
Why did you bring food to the dinner?” A good question that had puzzled Akitada.
The prisoner compressed his lips. “I know that is against me. It was customary to bring the prince a small gift. I never liked this custom and used to argue against it, but my fa . . . the governor insisted that it would offend certain people in the capital if we did not show such courtesy. When it was a matter of my going by myself, I
