wine to Osawa’s room.
She seemed preoccupied, and he got up quickly, dressed in his dry blue robe, put away his bedding, and laid the fire for her.
Then he went outside to get water from the well. The sky had cleared overnight, and a fresh breeze blew from the ocean, reminding him of the distance, in more than one sense, between himself and his family. But he put aside the troubling thoughts; the business at hand was the murder of the Second Prince.
Drawing the water and carrying the pail into the kitchen, he pondered the ramblings of the drunken professor, but could make nothing of them.
Having finished his chores, Akitada washed himself and retied his topknot. His beard itched and he wished for a barber, but the facial hair was his best disguise in the unlikely case that someone here knew him from the capital or from Echigo. It occurred to him to check his saddlebag in the kitchen. His own robe was still inside, tightly folded as he had left it. He slid a finger inside the collar and felt the stiffness made by the documents. Satisfied, he tucked the flute inside the robe and closed the saddlebag. Then he fortified himself with the rice dumpling offered by the hostess, who was assembling a tray for Osawa, and went to have a look at Minato by daylight.
This morning Minato sparkled freshly after the rain and seemed an ordinary, pleasant place after all. Akitada saw no sign of his shadow from the night before and wondered whether fatigue and the eerie, misty evening had made him imagine things. Shops were opening, and people swept in front of their doors or walked to work. The temple doors stood wide, and a young monk was setting out trays of incense for early worship-pers. Only the shrine lay as silent as the night before behind its grove of trees and thick bamboo.
Akitada turned down the street to the Bamboo Grove. Before him the lake stretched like a sheet of glistening silver. Fishermen’s boats were plying their trade in the far distance, and closer in some anglers trailed their lines in the placid waters. And everywhere gulls swooped, brilliant flashes of white against the azure sky, their piercing cries a part of the freshness of the morning.
To the northwest, Mount Kimpoku loomed, its top bright in the sun. It reminded him of the tall and striking Kumo, high constable of Sadoshima, and Mutobe’s choice as arch-traitor.
Kumo’s status and his influence over the local people made him an obvious leader, and his wealth could finance a military campaign. And, perhaps most importantly, his family believed itself wronged.
But the Kumo he had met, while something of a mystery, did not fit Akitada’s image of a ruthless avenger of family honor or of a man driven by hunger for power. According to his people, Kumo was modest and kind. The man who had allevi-ated the suffering of those condemned to work in the mines surely could not have ordered the murder of little Jisei.
Haru’s restaurant was still dark and silent after its late hours the night before, but in an adjoining shed a man was scrubbing a large table. All around him stood empty barrels and baskets, and a strong odor of fish hung in the air. Akitada called out a
“Good morning.”
The man looked up. Of an indeterminate age, he had the deeply tanned, stringy physique of a fisherman. Seeing Akitada’s plain blue robe and his neatly tied hair, he bowed. “Good morning to you. How can I help you?”
“You own the Bamboo Grove?”
“My wife Haru does.”
“Then you must be the man whose catches are famous hereabouts.”
Haru’s husband grinned. “I may be, but if it’s fish you came for, you’re too early. The first catch won’t be in until later.
What did you have in mind? Eel, turtle, octopus, shrimp, abalone, clams, bream, trout, mackerel, angelfish, flying fish, or blowfish?”
Akitada smiled. “Blowfish?”
“Yes.
“It’s for my master, who’s visiting Minato,” Akitada explained.
The man’s face brightened. “Ah! Of course. Many gentlemen enjoy
Otherwise . . . well, your master wouldn’t live long enough to thank you for your service.” He paused. “And his family might accuse you of murder.”
Akitada said, “I hope not. Has that ever happened here?”
“Not with any fish we’ve prepared,” the man said almost belligerently.
Akitada told him that he would consult with his master. As he returned to the inn, he wondered if Haru’s expertise with blowfish had come in question recently.
Osawa was up and freshly shaven but complained of feeling too ill to leave his room. He handed Akitada the governor’s letter and told him in a weak voice to deliver it to Sakamoto, making his apologies. “It’s not as if I were a common messenger,” he sniffed,
“or as if there were any need to discuss anything with Sakamoto.
Just hand the letter to a servant and wait for a reply. Sakamoto may, of course, rush right over here to apologize for that lout of a servant who turned us away so rudely last night, but I have no intention of moving to his house. I’m very comfortable right here.” And so he was, sitting in a nest of bedding with a brazier warming the air, a flask of wine beside him, and the remnants of his morning meal on a tray. Akitada took the letter with a bow and departed happily.
This morning there was activity at the Sakamoto house. The gates stood wide open, revealing a rather weedy courtyard and dilapidated stables. A groom was walking a handsome horse around the courtyard. Evidently another guest had arrived. The professor would be relieved to hear that Inspector Osawa preferred the inn to his villa. Akitada saw that the horse, a very fine dappled animal, had been ridden hard. Then something about it struck him as familiar. Yes, he was almost certain that this was one of the horses from Kumo’s stable. Had Kumo himself followed them to Minato? But Kumo’s groom had told the mine foreman that Kumo would want to inspect the fire.
“Hey, you!” One of the house servants, a fat youth who seemed to be eating something, waved to him from the house.
“What do you want?” he demanded when Akitada came to him.
Akitada held up his letter and explained.
The fat youth took another bite from his rice dumpling, chewed, and thought about it. “Wait here,” he finally told him, and waddled off. Akitada walked into the stone-paved entry.
Scuffed wooden steps led up to a long corridor. Somewhere a door creaked and slid closed. He heard the sounds of conversation, and then the door squeaked again. The fat youth reappeared, followed by the long-faced, middle-aged servant from the night before. He still looked ill-tempered. Holding out his hand, he said in a peremptory tone, “You can give it to me. I’m in charge. I’ll see the master gets it.” Akitada shook his head. “Sorry. I’m to give it to Professor Sakamoto in person. Tell him it’s from the governor.” The long face lengthened. “The professor has guests. You’ll have to come back later.”
Akitada was intrigued by a conference which was so important that Sakamoto could not be interrupted by a messenger from the governor. Drawing himself up, he said sternly, “Do you mean to tell me that you did not inform your master of Inspector Osawa’s visit yesterday?”
Recognition dawned belatedly, and the man flushed. “Oh.
Well, no. There hasn’t been time. The professor did not get back until quite late.” And then in no condition to take in such news, thought Akitada. “And this morning we had an unexpected guest. If you would tell your master, I’m sure he’ll understand.
Perhaps the professor could call on him later?” This did not suit Akitada at all. He said, “Don’t be a fool, man.
Inspector Osawa is still angry about being turned away yesterday.
He asked me to deliver this personal message from the governor because he is ill, a fact he blames entirely
