he told Akitada. “Tora killed him.”
Akitada’s jaw sagged. He looked at Tora. “You killed a man?”
“He killed two,” Kinjiro corrected proudly. “He tricked the Scarecrow-that’s Buntaro-to slash Genzo’s throat from ear to ear, and then he took Genzo’s knife and rammed it all the way into the Scarecrow’s chest. They bled buckets of blood on the floor.”
“Heavens,” murmured Akitada. “You have been busy, Tora.”
“He’s a great warrior,” cried Mr. Chikamura, who had eaten with good appetite and was becoming talkative. “After he fought Matsue, he went out to get rid of my nosy neighbor, and then they put me on a ladder, along with the bags of money, and carried me most of the way. When some constables tried to stop us, they told them I was dead from smallpox and they were gonna take me to Toribeno.” Mr. Chikamura emptied a cup of wine and giggled. “The constables just backed away and covered their noses.” He held out his cup, drank down the refill, and continued, “This smallpox-they say it flies through the air and if your Karma is bad, it’ll enter your body. Maybe they should beat a drum to scare the flying devils away.”
“We must hope that we’re safe,” said Akitada with a smile, but he was concerned. Seimei passed around more food and poured wine for Akitada and Tora, but he only gave tea to Kinjiro, who drank very little and ate nothing.
Akitada saw that Tora looked tired and drawn. He felt guilty but asked, “Did you learn anything about the murdered woman?”
Tora made a face. “Not much. She may have been Kata’s good luck charm, but Matsue hated her. Kinjiro says he used to watch her in the market.” The boy nodded listlessly. “I’d made up my mind to kill the bastard for Tomoe’s murder, but he said he didn’t do it.”
Akitada raised his brows. “And you believed that?”
“I’d just cut off his sword hand. He figured he was a dead man, so why lie?”
“And nothing else turned up?”
Tora shook his head.
Akitada sighed. “All this trouble, and we’re back where we started.” He got up. “I’ve plagued you enough for tonight. We’ll talk again tomorrow, and I’ll see to Sukenari’s sword. Get some sleep now, Tora.”
Mr. Chikamura had listened and now piped up, “That sword is Matsue’s. He told Buntaro it belonged to his family, and he’s the last of them. Everybody else is dead.”
Tora said tiredly, “Then he lied,” and lay down and closed his eyes.
In Akitada’s room a candle shed unsteady light on his desk and shelves of books. The doors to the garden were open, the blackness beyond silent and unfathomable. Tamako had spread out his bedding for him. He was not sure whether to be grateful or take it as a signal that he was not welcome in her room. He laid a square of cotton across his desk, placed Sukenari’s sword on it, and got out the cleaning materials. His father had kept these in a fine old sandalwood box and had taken pains to teach Akitada to care for swords. Sometimes it surprised Akitada that a scholar like the elder Sugawara had never forgotten respect for the military traditions of their ancestors. In later years he had come to be grateful for his father’s teachings, though he would never feel love for his stern and cold parent. Even now, as he laid out the stoppered bottle of clove oil, the small silk bag containing the fine whetstone dust, the batch of thick cleaning papers, and the small picks and mallets, he cringed inwardly at the memories of his boyhood.
But the cleaning of swords had become such a habit that he soon lost himself in the activity. He thought of his own sword. It had become his after his father’s death. Anger at the thieves who took it helped ease the unpleasant feeling in his belly that memories of his father always brought. Unlike his father, he had used the sword, and in that he found a sense of validation, almost as if he were still competing with a dead man.
The Sugawara sword was longer than Sukenari’s and a good deal heavier, but it had a very good blade nevertheless. He intended to get it back, though perhaps Yori would some day decide to order another, more modern sword. Soon it would be time to initiate his son into the secrets of taking proper care of a real sword.
Akitada wondered if Yori would approach the lesson as fearfully as the young Akitada had. Unwelcome memories of tearful battles over Yori’s poor writing skills came to his mind. Was Tamako right? Had he been asking too much of the child? Was he repeating his father’s sins? He had meant it for the best. A father had a duty to equip his son for the challenges of adulthood. Thanks to his own father, Akitada had known how to face danger and hardship when he met them.
Suddenly his eyes burned with unshed tears for the lost chance to thank his father. Oh, how to bridge the chasm between father and son? Yori loved Tora, and Akitada had noticed that Tora became like a child when he was with children. Why could he not be more like Tora?
He sighed and looked at Sukenari’s sword. The blood stains on the scabbard were beyond him, but the blade must be cleaned before it rusted. Blood was as damaging as water to a fine blade. Tora had wiped off the worst, but he must make certain that none was left under the hilt. With one of the small tools, he removed the peg that held the blade inside the hilt and slipped it free. Matsue had cared well for the stolen sword. Whatever his background and current occupation, the robber had loved this weapon. As he rubbed on the cleaning oil, Akitada looked at the master’s signature. The date was six years ago, one year before his dead friend’s life had fallen apart. Strange that Sukenari should have made a sword for another Haseo.
With the last trace of the bloody encounter between Tora and Matsue removed, Akitada lightly dabbed cleaning powder on both sides of the blade and used a fresh piece of paper to polish it. The blade was beautifully made, and he was very tempted to order a new sword for himself. In the flickering light, the lines produced by fusing the layers of steel began to undulate and shimmer along the deadly edge. How very close were art and violence! The moment of creation already contained the seeds of death. And the gods governed both.
Akitada shivered. A cool breeze blew in from the garden. When he turned, he saw that the trees rose dark against a faintly lighter sky. If he hurried, he could get an hour’s sleep before going to work. Turning back to his chore, he applied the fresh oil carefully and then reassembled blade and hilt. The sword guard was very finely made. He looked at the gilded pine branches and the thatched roof of some dwelling. What had Sukenari said? Pines and a Shinto shrine. Family emblems of some sort. Yes, it was a shrine roof. And then he had the oddest thought. The words for pine (utsu) and for shrine (miya) would sound like the name Utsunomiya! Could it be? Was this Haseo’s sword after all?
Sukenari had known and liked a man called Haseo. Akitada searched his memory, but could not recall that man’s family name. Five years had passed since the day his friend had died in his arms on a distant island. Akitada had asked the dying man for his surname. But perhaps Haseo’s mind had wandered already on that dark path? He had suffered a deep and dreadful wound to the stomach and was bleeding to death and in great pain. Heaven knew Akitada had not been very rational himself.
The awful memories came flooding back then, and with them the awareness-often acknowledged but never acted on-that he owed a great debt to the man who had saved his life and then lost his own.
Akitada fingered the sword guard. The emblems had been important to its owner, whatever his name had been. No wonder none of the official records had turned up any trace of anyone called Utsunomiya Haseo. For all Akitada knew, Haseo’s story had always lain there among the dusty trial records on the shelves of the Ministry of Justice and in one of the document boxes of old forgetful Kunyoshi.
His heart beating with excitement, Akitada replaced the sword in its scabbard and rose. There was no time for sleep now. He must see Sukenari right away.
A short time later, without having bothered to change his robe or eat his morning rice, Akitada strode down Suzako Avenue with the sword slung over his shoulder. He probably made a strange and frightening sight, unshaven and bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, in an old robe and armed. It did not matter. At this cool and slightly misty hour of the morning, the wide street was abnormally empty, and the few people he saw looked worse than he did. Dawn broke splendidly over the many roofs of his beloved city, gilding the roofs and sparkling off the distant tops of the twin pagodas of the Eastern and Western temples. Before him stretched the lines of willows in full leaf, their long branches sweeping the ground and reaching for the waters of the wide canal. But no children fed the ducks from the arched bridges that spanned the canal. No idlers rested under the trees. A monk and a few frightened creatures hurried on some urgent errands, keeping well clear of each other, and a solitary horseman headed for the palace. The city itself seemed to be sickening.
To his relief, Sukenari was awake and untouched by the disease. He welcomed Akitada with formal courtesy. Only a flicker of his eyelids showed his surprise when he saw the sword on Akitada’s back. He asked no questions
