“Ah.” Kumo shook his head. “A dreadful tragedy. Was he successful? The trial is set for the end of this month, is it not?”
“Yes. It’s only a week away. And he was not successful, I think. His spirits were quite low when he came back, and his servants say he does not sleep at night.” Akitada was surprised how well informed Osawa was about Mutobe’s private life, but he was even more intent on watching the high constable, hoping to get the measure of the man who might have played a part in the late prince’s life and death. Suddenly he found himself the object of Kumo’s interest and quickly lowered his eyes again. Too late.
“You have a new assistant, I see,” drawled Kumo. “Usually you bring only one scribe with you. This signifies some new honor, I assume?”
Osawa flushed and laughed a little. “You are too kind, sir.
No, no. The fellow is a prisoner who happens to write well. The governor is desperately short-handed and wished us to return quickly.” He added in an aggrieved tone, “He even insisted we ride horses on this occasion.”
“What? No bearers, and you not used to riding? My dear Osawa, you must have a hot bath immediately and rest before we talk business. Perhaps your assistants can start on the work with the help of my secretary. Come,” he said, getting to his feet,
“I have just returned from hunting myself. We shall enjoy a nice soaking together and you can fill me in on all the news from Mano.”
To do Osawa justice, he hesitated. But then he rose. “You are most kind, Your Honor,” he said. “I am a little fatigued. If your secretary will be good enough to give the documents in question to Taketsuna-the new fellow-he will show the scribe what should be copied for our files. This Taketsuna has a good education. I shall inspect their work in the morning.” Turning to his companions, he said, “You heard me?” Akitada nodded and bowed. Kumo and Osawa disappeared, and a servant took him and Genzo into a large office where several scribes were bent over writing desks or getting books and boxes from the shelves which covered three sides of the room.
Kumo’s secretary was a small, pleasant man in his mid-fifties. He took one look at Genzo’s broad face and dull eyes and addressed Akitada. “I started gathering the relevant tax documents the moment I heard of Inspector Osawa’s arrival,” he said, with a gesture to a desk covered with bulging document boxes. “My name is Shiba. Please feel free to ask for anything.
My staff will see to it immediately.”
Kumo’s scribes, all pretending to be busy while casting curious glances at the visitors, were a far cry from the pitiful staff of the governor’s archives, and Akitada, encouraged by Shiba’s courteous manner, said, “I am Taketsuna, an exile from the mainland and still a stranger here. Forgive my curiosity, but I was told that capable scribes and clerks are extremely rare. How is it that your master seems so well supplied with them?” Shiba chuckled. “We are part of his household. The master and his father before him saved likely boys from work in the mines by training them in different skills,” he said. “I, for example, was sixteen when my mother died in poverty. Like you, my father came here as a prisoner. My mother followed him when I was four. My father died soon after our arrival, and my poor mother worked in the fields to support us. She tried to teach me a little, but when she succumbed also, I-being a boy and small of stature-was sent to the mines. The master’s father found me there and took me into his household, where he had me taught by his son’s tutor. My master continues his father’s legacy.”
Shiba’s image of Kumo differed diametrically from Mutobe’s. The governor had called young Kumo “haughty and overbearing,” but Akitada had seen no sign of it in the man who had greeted a mere inspector like Osawa as a valued guest.
Turning with new interest to the documents, he saw quickly that Shiba and his scribes had indeed been well trained. The system of accounting was efficient and the brushwork of the scribes far superior to Genzo’s. He quickly identified the relevant reports and handed some of them to Genzo with instructions to begin copying.
Genzo folded his arms. “Do it yourself,” he growled. “I’m not your servant.”
The man needed a good beating, but Akitada said peaceably, “Very well. Then you will have to read through those and summarize them for the governor.” He pointed to a stack of documents he had set aside for himself.
Genzo went to look at the top document, frowned, then said, “Dull stuff, this. I prefer the copying.” Having got his way, he settled down and started to rub ink. Akitada smiled.
Shiba had watched with interest. He said in a low voice,
“Forgive me, Taketsuna, but I see that you are a man not only of superior education but also of wisdom. Perhaps, before your trouble, you had the good fortune to live in the capital?”
“That is so.”
Shiba pressed his hands together and said fervently, “Truly, how very blessed your life must have been. And by chance, have you ever visited the imperial palace?” Akitada smiled. “I used to work there and once I even saw His Majesty from a distance. He rode in a gilded palanquin and was accompanied by the empress and her ladies in their own palanquins, a very beautiful sight.”
“Oh!” breathed Shiba. “I imagine it must have been like a glimpse of the Western Paradise.” He was rapt with pleasure for a moment, then remembered his duty. “Forgive my chatter. You will want to get started. Perhaps tonight, after your work, you might join me for a cup of wine?”
Akitada said regretfully, “You are most kind, but I do not think Inspector Osawa will permit it.”
“Ah. Well, I think that may be managed. You are now in the Kumo mansion. All men are treated with respect here. I’ll send someone for you after your evening rice.” Akitada spent an hour checking the tax statements and writing brief summaries of the salient points, a chore he was abundantly familiar with. At sundown, a gong sounded somewhere nearby. Genzo dropped his brush noisily in the water container, yawned, and stretched. “About time they fed us,” he muttered.
Akitada rose and went to look over Genzo’s shoulders. The sheet of paper the man had been copying was splotched with ink, and the characters were barely legible. Worse, a few were missing so that whole phrases made no sense.
“You’ll have to do better,” he said. “We want clean copies, and you left out words and characters. Do that one over again more carefully.” He leaned forward to reach for the other sheets, pathetically few for an hour’s work. “Is that all you’ve-” he started to say, when Genzo suddenly lashed out, pushing Akitada back so hard that he sat down on the floor.
The scribe was up quickly for someone of his size and general lack of energy. “I’ll teach you to tell me what to do, filthy scum,” he ground out and threw himself on Akitada.
Irritated past reason, Akitada met the attack by leaning back and kicking him with both legs in the stomach. Genzo sucked in his breath sharply as he flew back against the table, scattering papers and ink. Akitada stood and pulled him up by the front of his robe. He said through gritted teeth, “I have had enough of you. Don’t think I don’t know you cut my saddle bands. One more outburst from you, and I’ll make sure you never walk again. Do you understand?”
Eyes bulging, Genzo nodded. He looked green and held his stomach.
“Clean up this mess,” Akitada snapped, dropping him back on the floor. “I don’t think you will feel much like food, so you may as well spend the time copying those papers over neatly. I’ll let the secretary know that you are finishing some work before retiring.” He strolled out of the room and left the building.
The evening was delightfully cool after the heat of the day.
If the high constable did, in fact, practice common courtesy toward even the lowliest prisoner on the island, then his staff might share his philosophy and allow him the privileges accorded a guest. He decided to test this theory by exploring and found that, wherever he strayed, servants smiled and bobbed their heads. One or two stopped to ask if he was lost, but when he told them he was just stretching his legs and admiring the residence, they left him alone. He did not, of course, enter the private quarters but wandered all around them by way of the gardens.
These were extensive and quite as well designed as any he had visited in the noble mansions and villas of the capital. Paths snaked through trees, shrubs, and rockeries, crossing miniature streams over curved bridges to lead to various garden pavilions.
Patches of tawny lilies bloomed everywhere and birds flitted from branch to branch.
One of the pavilions turned out to be a miniature temple.
