“Leave her out of it. She had nothing to do with this. Others?”

Eventually, she recited a fairly long list of names. Akitada told her to write them down. She did not write well, but he could make out the names and nodded.

“I didn’t put down two names. They’re dead,” she offered. “Miyagi and Ozuru.”

The fact she mentioned them last made Akitada suspicious. “Add them. How did they die?”

“Ozuru’s the one the customer threw out the window, and Miyagi had a miscarriage and bled to death.” She was matter-of-fact about these deaths. In her business, such events were apparently commonplace and considered part of the liability.

Disgusted, Akitada took the list and turned to leave.

“Wait, your lordship,” she cried. “What about Ohiro’s contract? When can we settle it?”

“I’ll let you know.” Akitada hoped he could avoid paying this woman a single copper coin for Ohiro’s freedom.

Out of Work

The remnants of Saburo’s savings were almost gone after he bought himself some decent clothes to replace those he had left behind. He spent most of his money on a plain gray robe of good ramie, adding an inexpensive pair of narrow cotton trousers and a black sash. It seemed like a foolish expenditure for a man without income, but he hoped it would help him find employment as a scribe.

The four years he had spent in the Sugawara household had changed him. He no longer tolerated the free and easy vagrant’s life he had led before, picking up a few coppers here and there, tossed by people who averted their eyes in disgust and pity. He also no longer could face sleeping in dirty alleyways or rubbing shoulders with robbers in hopes they might offer a share in their loot for information.

He had told the literal truth when he assured Akitada he was no thief. He had never stolen anything, but he had helped those who did steal and had sometimes shared in their success. But he did not want to return to those days.

What he had done to help Genba had been another matter, though he understood his master’s anger and accepted his dismissal as fair. But he would do it again. He would do it for friendship, as one friend for another—because to a man like Saburo having a friend was more precious than all the gold in the world.

Unfortunately, he had made things worse for his friend, and he must try to fix that.

He walked to one of the southern wards of the capital where he knew of several cheap hostels for travelers, but his first objective was a small, ramshackle house that took in lodgers.

The widow who owned the house was an acquaintance. She had seen worse things in her long life than Saburo’s disfigured face. As one of the women paid by the authorities to clean abandoned corpses before burial or cremation, she had dealt with the bodies of newborn babies, diseased beggars, abused women, and tortured youths. Almost all of them had died by one form of violence or another. Saburo’s face did not shock her.

She was too old and too fat now for such work and eked out her existence by renting out two rooms to poor laborers. She only rented to men, having found women more trouble than help. Women brought drunken men home with them, and those were likely to beat the woman and destroy a room in a rage over inadequate service or stolen money.

Saburo had helped her once when a couple of young hoodlums had taunted her. One look at Saburo’s face had sent the youths running. She had thanked him. They had chatted briefly, exchanging interesting facts about their past lives.

Now he knocked at her door with his bundles under his arm. She opened, blinked, then gave him a toothless smile. “Oh, is it you, Saburo? You startled me. You look well.” She peered more closely after she said this. “Maybe just a little peeked.”

Saburo’s heart warmed to her, and he smiled his crooked smile. In truth, he had been feeling low—very low— but the reason for that was his dismissal. He had been almost happy until then.

“Thank you, Mrs. Komiya. I’m quite healthy. I wondered if you might have a room for me.”

“You need a room?” She hesitated just a moment, then nodded. “For you, yes.”

“How much?”

“Ten coppers a week, but you got to keep it clean and you got to lend a hand sometimes. I’m getting old and can’t climb ladders anymore or lift heavy things. My lodgers always help me.”

He bowed. “A pleasure, dear lady.”

That made her smile again. “Well, come in then and take a look.”

The room was a mere cubby hole, just large enough for him to stretch out at night if he put his head on his bundle of possessions, but it was clean and had a separate door that led to a small vegetable patch in back of the poor little house.

Saburo deposited his bundle and shook out his new robe and trousers, draping them over an exposed rafter to smooth out the wrinkles.

“Oh my,” his landlady said. “How very fine you are! Are you sure this room is good enough?”

Saburo counted out ten coppers and passed them to her. “I’m very poor. These clothes will help me find work as a scribe. If you’ll have me, I’m content.”

“A scribe?” She tucked away the money and made him a little bow. “I’m honored, Master Saburo.”

And so it was a bargain.

Saburo asked if she needed help with anything. This pleased her. She gave him two wooden buckets and directions to a well where he could get water.

Saburo found the well, but he frightened several women and children away with his face. This brought back his depression.

Fetching water was women’s work, but Saburo was long past being proud, and hauled up the water, filled his buckets and carried them back.

Having satisfied his bargain for the time being, he changed into his new clothes, retied his topknot, and set out for the city offices. There he applied for work as a scribe. His clothes got him into the office of one of the senior scribes, but there he was turned away. The man saw his face and shook his head. “Can’t have you frightening the public away,” he said. “And can’t have you working in the back because everyone will come to stare at you. Sorry, but we serve the people and must make allowances.”

Saburo did not remind him that he, too, was people. He nodded and left. During the rest of the day, he visited several other public offices with no better results. Eventually, exhaustion drove him back to Mrs. Komiya’s to sleep.

The next morning, he started the process all over again. Again he was turned away. His money was almost gone, and he skipped both his morning and midday meals. He was beginning to feel quite faint when it was getting dark and turned toward the merchant quarter, thinking to buy a cheap bowl of noodles in the market before returning to his new home.

When he took a shortcut down an alley between two streets of merchants’ houses, he passed the back of a rice dealer’s business. Loud curses and a crash reached his ears, and he stopped, stepped on a barrel, and peered over the wall. He could see across a courtyard piled high with equipment, past open shutters into a room lit by an oil lamp. A middle-aged man was hopping about holding his foot and damning all the devils of hell. Saburo grinned. Apparently he had kicked his desk out the open doors.

He guessed the man must be the owner of the business. No employee would dare treat his master’s furniture in this fashion. The merchant was portly and well dressed, and he had probably been working at the desk that now lay broken outside. Papers, a large account book, writing utensils, and an abacus also lay strewn about. Saburo took a chance.

“What seems to be your problem, friend?” he asked.