pottery could be involved after all?”

Yamada shook his head despondently. Outside a cart rum-

bled past. The guard posted at the door yawned loudly. It was

almost closing time.

“We have failed,” Yamada said.

“Perhaps our man is out of town and did not hear of the no-

tice,” Akitada offered, but he did not really believe it himself.

“It was kind of you to try to help,” Yamada muttered glumly,

“but I’m afraid it’s no good. I shall tender my resignation in the

morning.”

There was nothing Akitada could say. He was racked by guilt

over his affair with Masako, and his failure to solve Yamada’s

problem made him feel worse. It struck him that this matter was

trivial by comparison with his true assignment. If he could not

even catch a petty thief, how was he to succeed in his much

more complex and dangerous undertaking?

And now there was a new complication in his life. In a mo-

ment of weakness, he had made Masako and her family his

responsibility. Many men of his class had several wives or concu-

bines, but he had hardly sufficient income for one wife and small

son. How could he maintain additional families? And he shud-

dered at the prospect of bringing Masako home with him. Quite

apart from the fact that such an act so soon after their marriage

and the birth of his son was a profound insult to his wife, the two women had little in common. Feeling wretched, he got up to put

away the ledgers and clean out his brush.

112

I . J . P a r k e r

But just then the guard outside hailed someone, then ush-

ered in a thin, dirty-looking man in his thirties.

The scrawny individual clutched a token and a bag of coins.

With a nervous glance at the guard, he sidled up to Yamada’s

desk. “It’s about my silver,” he said. “I’m a bit late, but I’m just back from a trip. The minute I got home, my neighbor comes

running and tells me to hurry over here. He says there was a

robbery and to bring my claim token. A poor man like me can’t

afford to lose his hard-earned savings. Two bars, it was.” He

extended the wooden token. “I brought the two strings of cash.”

He lifted the bag of coins.

Akitada took the token, recorded the name in his ledger, and

checked the date. Then he passed it to Yamada.

Yamada stared at the characters, then at the man. “Your

name, profession, and place of residence?”

“Tobe, Your Honor. I’m a vegetable farmer. Me and my wife

live in Takase.”

“Takase? Where is that?” asked Akitada, looking up from the

entries.

“It’s a village down the coast,” explained Yamada.

“When did you bring in the silver bars?” Akitada asked.

“I forget. It says on the token, doesn’t it?”

Yamada glanced again at the token. “I might have known the

drunken sot was too careless to weigh them,” he muttered in a

tone of outrage.

“What?” The thin man blinked. “It’s all proper and right,

isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes,” Akitada said quickly. “But we have to check these

things. Anyone could claim two bars of silver with a stolen to-

ken. How did you come by that much silver as a farmer?”

The man shuffled and tried an ingratiating grin. “I work

hard and save my earnings.”

I s l a n d o f E x i l e s

113

Yamada frowned. “Surely that is an extraordinary amount

to have saved at your age. I think we had better check to make

sure your claim is legitimate.”

The man paled. “It’s the truth,” he whined. “My wife and me,

we both work hard.”

Akitada said, “Hmm,” and gave him a sharp look. “Can you

bring any witnesses who saw you depositing two bars of sil-

ver here?”

Tobe looked panic-stricken. “I . . . I’ll be back tomorrow.

Give me back my token.”

“No. We’re getting to the bottom of this now,” said Yamada

with uncharacteristic firmness.

The man gasped a little. “It’s not urgent. I can wait,” he

cried, bowing and backing toward the door while clutching his

coins to his chest.

Yamada rose and called the guard when another man ran in

and collided with the retreating Tobe. It was the old drunk, con-

siderably more unsteady on his feet than earlier. He clutched at

Tobe for support, and for a moment the two swayed together

like an odd pair of lovers.

The drunk cried, “It’s you. Now I get my reward.” He wrapped

both arms around Tobe’s thin figure and announced, “He’s your

robber. Arrest him quick.”

The other man cursed and pushed the drunk away viciously.

The beggar hit the wall with a thud, and Tobe made a dash for

the door, where the guard caught him in mid-flight.

Akitada bent over the old drunk to help him up. “Are you

hurt, old man?” he asked.

The beggar felt his shoulder and ribs, started to shake his

head, then croaked, “I’m a bit dizzy. Could I have a drop of wine?”

“No more wine,” Akitada said firmly. “What’s this about a

reward?”

114

I . J . P a r k e r

“I was here before. Don’t you remember? That fellow’s

called Shiro. He’s the mat mender. He’s the one robbed the

Valuables Office. I want my reward.”

“You say his name’s Shiro and he lives right here in town?

Are you sure, old man?”

“Of course I’m sure. He lives in my quarter. His wife makes

clay pots and sells them on the market.”

“Aha!” Yamada eyed their claimant, still in the clutches of

the grinning guard, with grim satisfaction.

The man’s haggard face was covered with sweat. His eyes

moved about the room like a cornered animal’s. “I’m no robber.

I’m a respectable tradesman,” he protested. “And he’s only a

drunken beggar and he lies.”

“Tradesman? I thought you said you are a farmer,” Akitada

reminded him.

“Yes, and you also claimed to live in Takase,” Yamada put in.

When the man said nothing, Yamada told the guard, “Put him

down. Then close the door and wait outside. We may need you.”

The guard released his captive, saluted, and left, slamming

the door behind him. The sound caused their captive to start

trembling.

“Well, what is your name?” Yamada snapped.

“Shiro. I . . . I go by both names.” Their suspect started to

inch toward the door again. “If it’s too much trouble, I can

come back tomorrow,” he offered.

Akitada laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s no trouble at all. It must

be a great thing for a man to have a wife who helps him earn a

living. I suppose, being appreciative, you lend her a hand every

now and then, do you, Shiro?”

The man thought about this and decided to agree. “Of

course. I’m a considerate husband. I’m always carrying clay for

the little woman and taking her pots to the market.”

I s l a n d o f E x i l e s

115

“And you help her fire her pots, no doubt? Perhaps even

shape a simple clay object yourself?”

The other man gulped. “N-no, n-not that. No.”

“Oh, well. Just a guess,” said Akitada. Picking up the token,

he disappeared into the storage area. When he reappeared, he

carried two silver bars. “Here you are.” He tossed the bars to

Shiro, who was so astonished that he was a bit slow catching

them. One bar fell and broke.

The man put the other one down on the desk as if it burned

his fingers. Perspiration beaded his face again. “There’s been

some m-mistake,” he mumbled. “These are not mine.”

The old drunk staggered over to stare at the broken pieces.

Picking up a shard, he squinted at the red clay inside the silver

foil. “Looks like your wife made this one,” he told Shiro. “Why

did you rob the place when you’ve been making your own silver