bleakly. “Why not? You see the situation I’m in. Kumo controls all of Sadoshima, even my headquarters and staff.”
Tora looked from Mutobe to Yamada. Yamada nodded his head mournfully. No help here, Tora decided, and got to his feet.
“I’ll need a pass to travel without being stopped. There’s an obnoxious police officer in town who’s been threatening me already.” Suddenly it struck him that those threats were completely irrational unless Wada knew or suspected why Tora had come, and that must mean that he knew who Yoshimine Taketsuna really was. The job no longer looked so hopeless after all.
The governor wrote out a safe-conduct, inked his seal, and impressed it on the paper. Handing the pass to Tora, he said, “I doubt it will do you much good, considering my position, but you have my best wishes.” He glanced at Tora’s sword and smiled a little. “Normally my guards would have taken that from you, but it appears that I have become expendable. Be careful and hold on to your sword. You may need it.”
Tora stiffened into a snappy salute. “Thank you, Excellency.
If I come across news of your son or the young lady, I’ll let you know.”
Turtle was huddling in the shade of the tribunal wall and jumped up when he saw Tora stepping through the gate.
“Whereto now, master?” he cried.
Tora blinked at the westering sun. The brightness from the bay was blinding. Hmm,” he said. “It’s almost evening. How about something to drink, Turtle? You know a quiet place where one can have a good cup of wine without being bothered by police? Preferably a place not owned by one of your relatives?”
“Oh, yes, master. Follow me.” Turtle hobbled off, grinning happily.
Tora grinned, too. He liked being called master and he had a plan.
Turtle took him to a noodle shop in one of the alleys behind the market. This time of day, it was already crowded with farmers and market women snatching a quick bowl of soup before returning to their wares for the last sales of the day. Nobody paid any attention to them. There was a line in front of an immensely fat woman with a large iron kettle. She dipped out the soup with a bamboo ladle and took their money. Turtle whispered to her and she jerked her head toward the back.
They went to sit, Turtle at a little distance from Tora, and in a moment she came and brought two bowls of noodle soup, a large flask of wine, and two cups. Tora paid and poured for himself. Then he sampled the soup.
“A cup of wine would go well after sitting in the dust outside provincial headquarters,” Turtle hinted.
“No wine for you,” said Tora, smacking his lips. “Eat! I need your advice.”
Turtle’s eyes opened a little wider. He gobbled the soup and moved closer. “Yes, master?”
Tora flinched away. “Why don’t you take a bath more often?”
“Water wears down a person’s skin, and then sickness gets in. What you should do is rub plenty of oil on yourself to keep your skin fat and thick. Ask me something else.”
“Idiot. What I meant is, you stink so bad you ruin a man’s appetite. I want you to take a bath today. I’ll pay for it.” Turtle’s face fell. “Please don’t make me, master. It’s my life I’m risking,” he whined. “If you like, I’ll stop using the oil.”
“Oh, never mind. I’ll hold my breath. Now, here’s what I want to know. That Lieutenant Wada, do you know where he lives?”
Turtle nodded. “Inside the provincial headquarters.”
“Not good. Too many guards and soldiers about. What does he do at night, after work?”
Turtle’s eyes got bigger. He rubbed his hands and grinned.
“You want to jump him in a dark alley, master? Beat him up good, eh?”
Tora glanced around. Nobody was near them. “No. I want to nab him.”
Turtle’s eyes almost popped out. “Oh, heavens! Oh, dear!
Oh, Buddha! If you do that, you’ll have to kill him or it’ll be both our necks.”
“I may kill him if I have to. Now, how can I get him alone?” Turtle leaned closer and whispered.
He whispered so long that Tora’s face turned red from holding his breath, but he started to smile, and reached for the flask to fill Turtle’s cup.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE MINE
Later Akitada guessed that he had been in his grave for weeks.
Telling the days apart was impossible in a place where there was no daylight. He gauged the passage of time by the visits of the old crone with his food. Once a day she crept in with her lantern, blinding him by shining it on his face, put down full bowls of food and water, took up the empty ones, and left.
Before, he had existed blessedly somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness. With the return of reason came confusion, pain, fear, and panic. The total darkness made him think he was blind until the stench of the stagnant, fetid air brought the realization that he had been buried alive. And that discovery had driven him back into a semiconscious state which resembled dreams. Or in his case, nightmares.
The first time he thought his jailer was part of his hallucina-tions. As he passed in and out of consciousness in this utterly dark place, a distant clinking became the hammering of car-penters, or the clicking of the
In the case of the old crone, a strange clanking and creaking preceded her appearance. Then the darkness split into thin lines of gold forming a rectangle which expanded suddenly into blinding brightness. He closed his eyes in fear. A sour smell reached his nose, and the sound of soft scraping his ears. Something clanked down dully beside him and an eerie voice squawked, “Eat.”
He blinked then, cautiously, and there, not a foot from his nose, a horrible goblin face hung in the murk made by the flickering light reflected from black stonewalls. Long, shaggy, kinky hair surrounded a moonlike visage dominated by a broad nose, a wide mouth turned down at the corners, and small pale eyes disappearing in folds of orange skin pitted and covered with wens. She was female, he deduced from her voice only, and he was glad when she turned her scrutiny and the light of the lantern away and left him once again to the silence and darkness of his grave.
But the intrusion of the goblin had marked a return to awareness. After a while he overcame his nausea enough to feel around for the bowl. When he lifted it to his face, it stank, but the shaking weakness in his hands and wrists convinced him to eat. It tasted slightly better than it smelled, and it was best not to think about the gristly, slimy bits in the thick soup. He had managed about half of it before he vomited and fell back to doze off again.
He slept a lot. Lack of food or his injuries were responsible for that, and he was grateful for the oblivion because his waking moments were filled with terror. He was unbearably hot-
feverish?-and his grave was indescribably filthy. The stench of urine and excrement mingled with the sour smell of vomit and sweat. Why did they bother to feed him?
Why did he bother to eat? Yet after each visit, he would raise himself on an elbow and make another effort. In time he managed to keep down some of the food. In time he slept less and was forced to take notice of his body, which remained stubbornly alive, adding periodically to the filth around him and protesting against each movement with sharp pain.
He charted the pain as if his body were unknown territory and he were taking gradual possession of it. Head and neck at first seemed the worst, especially the back of his head. He managed to turn it enough to avoid contact between the sorest area and the hard stone. But twisting his neck brought on new, lesser, but persistent pains. The other center of agony was his right leg. He could not bend it, and a steady dull ache radiated from hip to knee and from knee to ankle even when he was not moving it. The rest was uncomfortable but did not take his breath away
