Osawa looked down his nose at him. “If you are referring to the other scribe in the archives, I am told he is nearly illiterate and it takes him forever to copy a page.”
“Well, then just take the prisoner. Master Yutaka always brags about how fast and elegant his brushstrokes are.”
“I need you both,” snapped Osawa. “He is to act as my secretary and you’ll do the copying. You are both under my orders now and will do as you are told.” He looked hard at Akitada, who bowed.
The problems multiplied at the stables. The horses were lively and pranced about the stable yard, making it hard for the grooms to control them.
Osawa saw this with an expression of horror. “These horses are half wild,” he protested. “We want something tamer.” The head groom shook his head. “Governor’s orders.” Akitada took the bridle of the calmest horse and led it to Osawa. “Please take this one, Inspector,” he said with a bow. “He has a soft mouth and will be manageable.” He turned to the scribe. Although Genzo was big-boned and heavy, he cringed from the horses. “And you, of course, will want the black?” The black was so big that two grooms hung on to his bridle.
Genzo shot Akitada a venomous look. “You take him,” he said. “I have no desire to kill myself.”
“As you wish.” Akitada swung himself into the saddle, taking pleasure in being on horseback again, while Genzo had to be helped onto the third horse and instantly fell back down. “Are there any mules?” Akitada asked the grinning head groom.
A sturdy mule was substituted for the horse, and Genzo managed to get in its saddle. They rode out of the stable yard accompanied by half-suppressed laughter from the grooms, passing the prison and Yamada’s house without seeing either father or daughter.
And so they left Mano and headed inland. The narrow road wound northeast through a wide plain of rice paddies stretching into the distance. On both sides wooded mountains rose, and ahead lay Mount Kimpoku, a dark cone against the blue sky. It marked the other side of Sadoshima and overlooked Lake Kamo and Minato.
The two horses and the mule trotted along smoothly. Lush green rice paddies promised a good harvest, a soft wind rustled through the pines lining the way, and small birds twittered in the branches. The sky was clear except for a few cloudlets, and the sun had not yet brought the midday heat. Now and then a hawk circled above, looking for field mice or a careless dove.
It would have been altogether pleasant, except for Akitada’s assignment and his companions’ ill humor. The former he could do nothing about; the latter he tried to ignore. Osawa was becoming used to his horse and did not do too badly, but he clearly disliked riding and was in a foul humor, which he took out on Genzo. The scribe kept slipping off his mule, causing delays while Akitada dismounted to help him back in the saddle. Genzo maintained a sullen silence under the barrage of ridicule and reproof heaped upon him by Osawa, and Akitada’s assistance made his antagonism worse instead of better.
They reached the hamlet of Hatano by midday and stopped at a small temple. In the grove of cedars surrounding the temple hall, they ate a light repast of cold rice wrapped in oak leaves and drank water from a well bubbling among mossy rocks.
Osawa, still in a bad mood, maintained distance between himself and his helpers, choosing to sit on a large rock near the well while making Akitada and Genzo squat on the ground next to their mounts.
Akitada was glad not to have to engage in chitchat with either of his companions. As soon as feasible, he left to relieve himself and inspected the collar of his robe by unpicking some threads. Both the imperial documents that commanded him to investigate Prince Okisada’s death and Governor Mutobe’s safe conduct were still there and in good condition. But he cursed himself for his carelessness; he should have foreseen his robe might need cleaning, though he had not expected to bleed quite so copiously over it. Masako must have washed out the bloodstains. But had she removed the documents first and later reinserted them and sewn up the collar?
If so, had she recognized the imperial seal? Could she read?
Her rough manners and the fact that she was a girl suggested that Yamada probably had not bothered to teach her, concentrating his efforts on his son instead. He had certainly not called on her to help him with his bookkeeping. But wouldn’t she have taken the documents to her father, who would have recognized them immediately? She had not done so, or Yamada would have mentioned it. It was puzzling and worrisome.
They remounted and continued the journey for another mile when Akitada’s horse shied and unseated him. He landed hard on his hip and right shoulder and stared in surprise at his saddle, which lay beside him in the road. The big black had jumped off the roadway into a rice paddy, where the deep mud prevented him from galloping off. Akitada picked himself up to a snicker from Genzo. Osawa frowned but said nothing. When he looked at his saddle, Akitada saw that both saddle band and back strap had broken because someone had partially cut them.
Genzo’s work, he thought, but he said nothing. Instead he caught the black and, slinging the saddle and saddle packs over his shoulder, rode the rest of the way bareback.
They reached the manor of Kumo Sanetomo, high constable of Sadoshima, before sunset. They had passed through rich rice lands, dotted here and there by small farms and modest manors, but Kumo’s estate was very large even by mainland standards. The walled and gated manor house was surrounded by a cluster of service buildings and an extensive garden. The whole looked more like a small village than a single residence.
Deep, thatched roofs covered the main hall and attached pavilions. The garden stretched beyond. A separate enclosure contained stables, kitchens, storage buildings, and servants’
quarters.
Akitada was intrigued by these signs of wealth. “The high constable’s manor looks more like a nobleman’s seat than a farm,” he said to Osawa, who was saddle sore and glowered.
“All those stables must contain many horses, and he probably employs and houses a hundred servants. If the place were better fortified, it might be a military stronghold.” Osawa grunted. “Kumo, as his father before him, is very wealthy. Horses are his particular fancy. Being a descendant of an old noble family, he carries on its traditions of hunting, swordsmanship, and archery from the back of a horse. Wait till you see the residence. I doubt there are many better in the capital.”
The big double gate opened promptly at their approach.
Kumo’s servants were well-dressed and healthy-looking men who took the animals and directed the travelers to the main hall of the residence. There an elderly house servant in a black silk robe received them and led them into a small but elegant room.
Sliding doors were open to the garden, panels covering storage areas had landscape paintings pasted on them, the rice mats underfoot were thick and new, and on the large black desk rested lacquered and painted writing boxes, jade water containers, bamboo brush holders, and a small, delicate ivory carving of a fox.
Osawa took one of the cushions near the desk, leaving Akitada and Genzo standing. After a minute, a young woman in a pretty green silk robe entered and placed a tray with refreshments before Osawa. She bowed and informed him that her master would come immediately.
He did. They could hear his firm steps and deep voice in the corridor outside before he flung back the sliding door and ducked in. The doorway was not particularly low, but Kumo was one of the tallest men Akitada had seen. He guessed him to be about his own age and in excellent physical condition.
Dressed in a copper-colored brocade hunting jacket and brown silk trousers, Kumo wore his hair loose to just above his broad shoulders and had a full mustache and short, well-trimmed chin beard. Perhaps he meant to combine the costly costume of the court noble with the manly appearance of the military leader. His eyes, strangely light in the deeply tanned face, passed indifferently over Akitada and Genzo, who had knelt and bowed their heads at his entrance.
“Ah, it’s my good friend Osawa,” Kumo said, his voice filling the small room, much as his large figure dominated it.
Osawa bowed deeply. “It is my very great pleasure to call on Your Honor again.”
Kumo laughed, seating himself on the other cushion and pouring wine from a flask into the two cups on the tray. Both flask and matching cups were of Chinese porcelain. He passed one of the cups to Osawa. “Never mind all the respectful phrases, my friend. I’m just a simple farmer who is honored by the visit of our governor’s most trusted advisor. Please, eat and drink. You must be quite exhausted from your long journey.
How is His Excellency these days?”
Osawa blushed with pleasure at the attention. “Not so well, I’m afraid,” he confided. He drank, he nibbled, and he became expansive. “In fact, he’s quite distraught. His son is awaiting trial, you know. The governor paid him a visit just the other day. I expect he was trying to elicit some shred of evidence in his favor.”
