The big man mouthed something and gestured.

The old-timer nodded. “Nobody near you, but a man was walking away at the end of the alley.”

“Did you see what he looked like?”

The giant scratched his head, pointed at Saburo and muttered.

“He looked like you,” the old man translated with a grin.

“He looked like me?” Saburo stared at him.

The giant chuckled, gestured some more, and pointed at Saburo’s clothes. The old man explained, “He was your size and dressed in black from head to toe. What happened to your face?”

Saburo had to answer this question all the time. He minded, just as he minded the stares, the averted eyes, the expressions of horror and disgust. At least neither the giant nor the old beggar seemed at all bothered by his horrible disfigurement. No doubt they were used to all sorts of horrors. He said, “Some men wanted to know what I couldn’t tell them.”

“Oh,” said the old man and fell silent. The giant leaned across and patted Saburo’s shoulder with his huge paw, causing him to tumble sideways and cry out at the sudden pain in his head.

The giant muttered. The old man said, “Jinsai says to let Bashan look at your head. Come, I’ll take you.”

Saburo protested, but the old man was already limping away. This time, Saburo just waved a hand toward the giant, then followed the old beggar.

The temple had once been very large, and while it offered only partial shelter against the rain, its inhabitants had found their own means of improving it. Here and there, fallen debris and sections of wood flooring or of interior walls had been salvaged and cobbled together to make small huts and lean-tos. There they lived, singly or as small families. The whole formed a village of sorts. He was in the beggars’ headquarters. This ruined temple was the location of their kakibe, their guild, for they were organized like any other business in the city. And they were untouchable, and therefore outside the jurisdiction of the city. They had their own laws and rules.

The old man headed for the open courtyard. It was still surrounded by partial walls and the remnants of outbuildings. Even parts of the pagoda remained. Near the well of what must have been the kitchen area when monks still lived there, a small group of people had gathered to watch a bald man at his work.

Bashan.

Saburo saw that Bashan was one of the blind masseurs. His head was shaven and he knelt in front of a seated man, probing inside his mouth. Beside him rested an open wooden satchel. Many masseurs were blind men and performed their services by touch only. Some even practiced acupuncture and moxibustion, carrying their tools in a box that could be slung across their shoulder and chest. Such work was possible for the blind, and some became very good at it.

But Saburo did not trust a blind man to touch his head and stopped. “No, wait. I don’t need any help. I feel fine.”

The old man ignored him and shouted, “Hey, there, Bashan. Got a patient for you. He’s had a bad knock on his head. Get your fingers out of Goto’s mouth and take a look at him.” He chortled at the expression. Seeing Saburo’s reaction, he added, “Got magic in those fingers. Don’t you worry.”

The masseur had turned his face in their direction. His eyes were half closed, and he leaned his head sideways as if to hear better. He called out, “Is that you, Eino? I’m done.” He held up a bloody tooth and made Saburo gag again. “Bring him over here.”

His patient rose with a wide grin of relief, the gaps in his teeth proving he had lost teeth before and probably more painfully.

The old man seized Saburo by the sleeve and drew him forward.

“Really, I’m fine,” said Saburo, hanging back. “Thanks, Bashan, but I don’t need any treatment. Besides I’ve got no money.”

Bashan laughed. It was a nice laugh, full-throated and pleasant. Tora saw that the blind masseur was tall and would have been handsome if not for his disability. “Nobody has any money here, friend. Sit down and let me touch your face.”

Saburo recoiled. “No!”

Bashan cocked his head. “What’s wrong?”

The old beggar explained, “He’s got those ugly scars on his face. He says someone tortured him. It’s really the back of his head needs looking at.” To Saburo, he repeated, “Don’t you worry! Bashan’s very gentle.”

With an inward sigh, Saburo sat down across from the masseur. Bashan washed his hands in a basin and dried them on a cloth attached to his belt. Then he traced Saburo’s scars with his fingers. Their touch was cool from the water and soft and very quick. “I see,” he murmured. “Did you tell them what they wanted to know?”

“Yes,” Saburo said, angry at the man and at himself. “You would’ve done the same.”

“I believe you. Now lean down so I can check your head.”

Again Bashan’s touch was feather light. Saburo felt only a couple of brief twinges.

“You’ll do,” pronounced the masseur. “If you permit, I’ll wash your hair to keep the wound clean and prevent you frightening people. There’s a lot of blood.”

“You’re very kind, but I don’t want to trouble you.”

“No trouble. I pride myself on the way I wash hair.” Bashan chuckled.

Saburo murmured, “Thank you,” and submitted.

Apart from the faint burning when the water and Bashan’s fingers came too close to his broken scalp, the experience was pleasant, and when it was over, Saburo felt a good deal better.

“Do you wear your hair in a knot?” asked the masseur.

“Yes, but I didn’t tonight. I suppose the knot might have softened the blow.”

Bashan smiled. “Perhaps, but I don’t think your enemy meant to kill you.”

“I don’t feel particularly grateful at the moment,” Saburo said sourly. “I’ve worked out that I’m in the temple of the beggars. When I first came to, there was this weird old fellow in women’s clothes sitting beside me. He called me by my name and said he was Kenko. It was … well, disconcerting. How did he know my name?”

Bashan’s eyebrows rose. “A warning, friend. The Venerable Kenko is the chief of the beggars and the temple priest. The people here love and obey him. As for how he knew your name: Kenko knows just about everything. My guess is someone recognized you and told him.”

Saburo thought about this. It was possible. His face was not easily forgotten, and beggars were everywhere. He also thought about the priest. Aside from Bashan, the beggars so far had not impressed him. A priest dressed in a woman’s red silk gown perhaps least of all. But he knew he had almost made a bad mistake.

“Thanks for your help,” he told Bashan. “I owe you. I’m not one of them, so I can pay, only I don’t have any money on me. I’ll come back. Will I find you here?”

“Only when they need me,” Bashan said, packing his tools into his case. “And you owe me nothing. But be careful, Saburo. Next time you may not be so lucky.” He got to his feet, slung the box over his shoulder and chest, attached the basin to it, and took up a long staff leaning against the well coping. Giving Tora a nod, he walked away, tapping the ground before him.

Saburo cast another look around. The beggars had melted away, and he was alone. Never mind. He would return when he felt a bit better. It had struck him that beggars made the perfect spies, being everywhere and ignored by all.

The Grieving Father

Akitada pondered the character of the prince’s wife all the way to the Minamoto residence. He wished he could speak to this powerful woman, but his interview with the prince had not gone well, and he had no way of approaching Lady Kishi.

She would not in any case welcome such a call, even if the problems of visiting another man’s wife could be overcome. Lady Kishi was in a peculiar position. As Prince Atsuhira’s wife, she was most likely deeply offended by her husband’s affair with one of the emperor’s ladies, yet, her fate was tied to her husband’s, and he clearly was in serious political trouble. Would she have been angry enough to punish him by accusing him of treasonable plotting? It did not seem likely, but perhaps she had acted thoughtlessly in her jealousy and now regretted having taken her vengeance.