considerably older. Surely he would not jump about like a mad flea.
He did not. But he was a very deliberate defensive fighter, and this bout lasted four times as long as the last. When he had finally disarmed the man, Tora was tired. He realized he was badly out of shape, but expecting him to fight one opponent after another without allowing him rest periods between bouts struck him as unfair. By now, his thin shirt and trousers were glued to his sweating body, and he kept having to wipe his sword hand on his clothes to get a firm grip. He saw with some satisfaction that the students he had fought looked worse than he.
The last student was his own age. If the past performances had been anything to judge by, this must be the star pupil. He was. The student executed several aggressive moves perfectly. Tora decided to use caution. He concentrated and paid attention to his defensive moves while waiting for an opening for a surprise attack. This paid off, because he managed to trick his opponent into an ill-considered lunge, which allowed Tora to twist and seize the other man’s sword hand, bending it back at the wrist. The student screamed and dropped his weapon.
As he bowed to his shamefaced opponent and then to Kata, he heard Kinjiro applaud again. This time, reluctantly, a few students joined in.
Tora expelled an audible sigh of relief. He was drenched in sweat, and the muscles in his calves and shoulders ached and throbbed unpleasantly. “Well, Sensei?” he asked Kata with a grin. “Are you satisfied? Will you take me on? I work cheap. Food and shelter to start with. But I can use some sword practice, so I’d like a few private lessons, too.”
“Do you now?” Kata cocked his head. “And what other sorts of work can you do?”
“Well,” said Tora with a laugh, “I draw the line at sweeping up after everybody, but as I’m pretty good with my sword, I could take care of any troublemakers, or collect money that’s owed to you, or generally just keep an eye on you and your business.” He went to place his practice sword on the trunk Matsue was leaning against.
Matsue straightened up and seized Tora’s wrist. “Not so fast, mouse catcher. Maybe you did scare a few of the little pests, but I’m not done with you. After the tiger roars, he’d better prove that he has teeth and claws. You call yourself Tora; let’s see if you can fight like a tiger.”
Tora stared at him. He had just fought five bouts and was exhausted. Sweat was pouring off him. He said, “I’m tired. Some other time. Tomorrow, maybe? Or later tonight?”
Matsue smiled unpleasantly. “What? Are you no tiger after all? After filling the boy’s ears with your boasts, you now claim fatigue because some puny students practiced their pathetic skills on you? And you expect to become a useful member of this training school? Pah!”
Tora flushed with anger. Matsue had planned this from the beginning. He bowed. “As you wish.”
Matsue took another practice sword from the wooden box. It was beautifully tapered, slightly longer than Tora’s, and almost black in color. He performed a couple of sharp slashes, then assumed his position.
When Tora had taken his place, Matsue, small eyes flickering with malicious joy, bowed. Tora returned the bow. His hand and the grip of his sword were slippery with his sweat, but he made an effort to put this complication from his mind and think positively. He would not allow Matsue to taunt him into confusion or, worse, fear. Instead, he would make his move quickly and end the contest before it was too late.
Focusing his eyes on Matsue’s center, he waited. When Matsue lunged, Tora parried, saw his chance, and instantly took a large step forward to side kick Matsue’s leg. It was a soldier’s trick of overcoming an attacking adversary quickly. But the move failed miserably. As Tora’s leg shot forward for the kick, the foot carrying his weight slid out from under him. He slipped on the wet boards where one of the students had tumbled earlier and was already falling when Matsue’s sword came hissing down.
A fierce, hot pain exploded in Tora’s skull, and the world disappeared.
CHAPTERTWELVE
As he jumped to avoid the downward slashing sword, Akitada crashed into the clothes stand, which toppled, covering him with a pile of scented silk garments. A woman screamed piercingly, “No!” Momentarily blinded and helpless, he knew his attacker was striking again. He attempted to roll out of the way of the blade, but was tangled in the garments. This time, miraculously, the blade caught the wooden frame of the stand, and he only felt a sharp blow to his shoulder. The woman screamed again.
Heaving up clothes and stand with a single violent movement, Akitada regained his feet and vision. Even in the semidarkness, he took in the scene quickly. Two women were in the room, one cowering on the floor and sobbing hysterically, the other, massive as a figure carved from rock, standing protectively in front of her, her broad face a mask of snarling determination. The woman on the floor was his “nun,” though she was no longer wearing the veil and habit. Her protector was a servant, a peasant woman of extraordinary size.
The sword lay on the floor between him and the two women. Akitada bent to take it up, seeing with surprise that it was very beautiful. The hilt was gold inlaid with colored enamel and pearls, and the blade was incised with patterns filled with gold and silver. He touched his thumb to it. It was as dull as a wooden practice sword.
“Very pretty,” he said, “but since swords like this are meant for ceremonial wear only, it’s not very useful as a weapon. Still, you might have killed me. Do you always attack visitors who have announced themselves outside your door?”
The maid still simmered with hostility. “You have no business here,” she said. “I was protecting my lady. Go away or I’ll call the constables.”
Akitada ignored this. “This is Lady Yasugi then, I assume? She can tell you that calling for constables does little good in this neighborhood. We met yesterday in the street outside.”
The woman on the floor got to her knees and bowed. “This foolish person apologizes for the mistake. We thought you were a robber.”
She had a lovely, cultured voice. Akitada returned the bow. “A reasonable mistake. I was passing your house when I saw a man climbing over the back wall. I scared him off, but decided to have a look in case someone else lurked about. My name is Sugawara Akitada, by the way. I serve in the Ministry of Justice.”
The maid could no longer contain herself. “You met my lady in the street? And someone was climbing our wall? Amida! What is going on?”
Her mistress said sharply, “Be quiet, Anju,” and told Akitada, “I am Hiroko, my Lord Yasugi’s third wife.”
“Ah. I was told that Lord Yasugi had left with his entire family days ago. Why are you here alone?”
Her eyes flickered to her maid before she answered. “I fell ill. My lord left me until I would be well enough to travel. I shall join him soon. We are expecting an escort any day.”
Akitada did not bother to keep the disbelief from his voice. “Lord Yasugi left two women here alone?”
She flushed and lowered her eyes. Akitada saw now that she was a remarkable beauty. The nun’s habit had hidden her best features: an oval face framed by thick, long hair; large eyes and sweetly shaped lips enhanced by touches of paint; a graceful body flattered by the thinnest of silks in many layers and in exquisite shades of rose and lilac. No man in his right mind would let such a treasure out of his sight for long.
She spoke again, in a pleasant soft voice that nevertheless put him in his place for implying criticism of her husband. “We could not be certain that I had not contracted smallpox. My lord left two male servants, but one has gone to nurse his sick mother, and we have sent the other after my husband to tell him I am now well enough to travel.”
Smallpox again. Apparently it seized people’s imaginations to such a degree that they abandoned their loved ones. Akitada was shocked at the husband’s inhumanity. He looked from her to the servant, who stood stolidly beside her mistress, watching and daring him to doubt what he was being told. Then he laid the sword on a clothes chest, bent to pick up the rack, and set it upright again.
“Oh, please do not trouble,” cried Lady Yasugi. “I have forgotten my manners. Forgive me. Anju will do that. Anju, a pillow for Lord Sugawara and see if there is some wine.”
Akitada found the cosmetics box under the pile of silk robes and picked it up. “This is very beautiful,” he said. “The design of a master. There cannot be very many like it.”
Lady Yasugi glanced at the box. Twisting her hands in her lap, she murmured, “Thank you. It is nothing. A gift from a relation. Bring the wine, Anju.”
