oblivion.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Almost a month after the arrival of Yoshimine Taketsuna on Sado Island, another ship from Echigo brought a young man in military garb. Under the watchful eyes of several people, the new arrival made his way from the ship to a small wine shop overlooking Mano Harbor. He was a handsome fellow with white teeth under a trim mustache, and he wore his shiny new half armor and sword with a slight swagger. A scruffy individual in loincloth and tattered shirt limped behind him with his bundle of belongings.
The rank insignia on the visitor’s breastplate marked him as a lieutenant of the provincial guard. Both the iron helmet with its small knobs and the leather-covered breastplate shone with careful waxing. Full white cotton trousers tucked into black boots and a loose black jacket covered his broad shoulders.
He took a seat on one of the benches outside the shop and removed his helmet, mopping it and his sweaty brow with a bright green cloth square he carried in his sleeve. Then he pounded his fist on the rough table. His bearer limped over and squatted down on the ground beside him.
“Hey,” growled the officer, “you can’t sit here. Go over there where I don’t have to smell you.”
Obediently the man got up and moved.
“Miserable wretches don’t know what respect is,” grumbled the new arrival, and eyed the bearer’s bony frame with a frown.
Surely the man was over forty, he thought, too old for hard physical labor. Besides, he was crippled. One of his legs was shorter than the other. Worse, the fellow looked starved, with every rib and bone trying to work its way through the leathery skin.
He turned impatiently and pounded the table again. A fat, dirty man in a short gown and stained apron appeared in the doorway and glared into the sun. Seeing the helmet and sword, he rushed forward to bow and offer greetings to the honorable officer.
“Never mind all that,” said his guest. “Bring me some wine and give that bearer over there something to eat and some water to drink. If I don’t feed him, he’ll collapse with my bundle.” The officer was Tora, normally in charge of the constables at the provincial headquarters of Echigo, but now on a mission to find his master.
Glancing about him, he rubbed absentmindedly at the red line the heavy helmet had left on his forehead. Made of thick iron and lined with leather, even half armor was heavy and uncomfortable, but his was new and he was still inordinately proud of it.
The owner of the wine shop returned with the order. He set a flask and cup down on the table and turned to take a chipped bowl filled with some reeking substance to the bearer, when Tora clamped an iron fist around his arm.
“What is that stinking slop?” he demanded.
“Er, fish soup, sir.”
Tora sniffed. “It stinks,” he announced, and jerked the man’s arm, spilling the soup in a wide arc into the street. Immediately seagulls swooped down with raucous cries to fight over the scattered morsels. He growled, “Get fresh food or I’ll put my fist into that loose mouth of yours.”
“Yes, sir, right away, sir,” gasped the man, rubbing his wrist and backing away. From a safe distance, he pleaded, “But he’s only a beggar. Lucky to get anything. I wouldn’t have charged much.”
“What?” roared Tora, rising to his feet. The man fled, and quickly reappeared with a fresh bowl, which he presented to Tora, who first smelled and then tasted it. Satisfied, he nodded.
The squatting servant received the food with many bows and toothless grins toward his benefactor before raising it to his mouth and emptying it in one long swallow.
“Give him another,” instructed Tora. “He likes it.” Having seen to the feeding of his bearer, Tora poured himself some wine and leaned back to look around.
He had spent the crossing planning his approach carefully.
Tora was not much given to planning, but life with his master had taught him to respect danger. In the present situation, he knew he must restrain his anxiety and move cautiously to gather information without precipitating unfortunate develop-ments. His master had used a disguise. Perhaps it had failed.
Tora felt that nothing was to be gained by doing the same.
Something had clearly gone wrong, or he would have returned or sent a message by now. As it was, they had waited well beyond the time of his master’s expected return.
Though it was a beautiful late summer afternoon, with the sun glistening on the bay, seagulls wheeling against a blue sky, and colorful flags flying over the gate of a nearby palisade, Tora frowned. There was nothing cheerful about the people here.
Half-naked bearers were unloading bales and boxes from the ship. They were younger, stronger, and better fed than the pathetic creature guarding Tora’s bundle, but their expressions were uniformly sullen or dejected. There was no talk. Neither jokes nor curses passed their lips as they crept, bent double under their loads, along the beach toward piles of goods stock-piling under the eyes of bored guards.
Tora considered the cripple. Their host had referred to him as a beggar, but the ragged creature had offered his services as a bearer. On second thought, the man could not have handled anything much heavier than Tora’s bundle, which contained little more than a change of clothes.
The man bowed and grinned. At least four of his front teeth were gone, he had a flattened nose, and one ear was misshapen.
Either he was incredibly foolhardy about getting into fights, or he had been beaten repeatedly. Tora thought the latter and beckoned the man over.
He rushed up with that lopsided limp of his and carefully positioned himself downwind. “Yes, your honor?”
“What’s your name?”
“Taimai.”
“Taimai? Turtle?”
The man nodded. “It’s lucky.”
“Hmm.” Tora glanced at the skinny, twisted figure and disagreed. “Well, Turtle, would you know of a good cheap inn?”
“Yes, yes,” Turtle crowed, jumping up and down in his eagerness. “Just around the corner. Very cheap and excellent accommodations.”
Tora rose, dropping some coppers on the table. The host rushed out and scooped them up eagerly. He bowed several times. “Come again, your honor. Come again.” Paid the rascal too much, Tora thought as he put on his helmet and followed the limping Turtle into town.
“Just a moment!” said a high, sharp voice behind him.
Tora turned and recognized the red-coated police officer, also a lieutenant. He had come on board ship to check everybody’s papers before they disembarked. Under normal circumstances, Tora would have struck up a conversation and proposed a friendly cup of wine, but there was something about the man that he did not like. He had passed his papers over silently, and the lieutenant had studied them silently, giving Tora a long measuring look from small mean eyes before returning them without comment.
Tora now narrowed his eyes and looked the other man over, from his meager mustache to his leather boots, and said, “Yes?”
“Where are you going with that piece of shit? I thought you had a dispatch for the governor.”
Tora turned to glance at Turtle, who had shifted his small twisted body behind Tora’s bulk and looked terrified. “Is there a local law against hiring someone to carry your baggage?”
“There’s a law against associating with felons. You!” the policeman snapped, advancing on Turtle. “Out of
