mate. His hands shook a little with awe and pleasure, and he

closed his eyes before playing in earnest.

The song he chose was one he knew well, but still he was

nervous. He knew he could not do justice to such a flute, even if

he tried his best. “Rolling Waves and Flying Clouds” was not his

favorite, but it contained a passage he had never quite mastered,

and he hoped Ribata would correct him. So he concentrated,

paying attention to his fingering, and thought he did not do too

badly. But when he opened his eyes and lowered the flute, he

saw that the nun had fallen asleep.

It was almost dark. As if to respond to the call of the flute, a

cicada began its song nearby, and gradually others joined. He

listened for a while, feeling mournful and unhappy.

Then he raised the flute to his lips again and played to the

cicadas. He played “Twilight Cicadas” for them, and as they

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141

seemed to like that, he also played “Walking Among Cherry

Blossoms,” and “Wild Geese Departing,” and “Rain Falling on

my Hut.” As he played, he thought of his wife Tamako dancing

about the courtyard with their infant son. He had a sudden

fear that he might not survive this journey to see them again

and resolved if he did, he would try to be a better husband and

father.

As always, the music eased his black thoughts, and when the

last song was done, he sighed and with a bow, he laid the pre-

cious flute on the mat before the sleeping nun. Then he rose.

Ribata’s voice startled him. “You are troubled.”

He stood in the dark, waiting.

“I think you play the flute to find the way out of your trou-

bles,” she told him.

“Yes,” he admitted, awed by her perception. “I’m not very

good, because I don’t concentrate on technique but only on the

sounds and my thoughts. How did you know?”

In the faint light remaining, he could see that her eyes were

open now and rested on him. “The flute told me.”

“I want to do better,” he said humbly, and, saying it, he knew

he meant more than flute playing.

He waited a long time, but she made no other comment.

Finally he bowed. “I have been a nuisance,” he said. “Please for-

give me. Thank you for allowing me to play this magnificent

flute. I shall always remember it.” He turned to go.

“Take it with you,” she said.

He stopped, appalled. “No. I couldn’t. Not that flute. I’m not

worthy and—”

“Take it,” she said again.

“You don’t understand. I could not care for it properly. It

might get lost or broken. Where I am going there is . . . unrest,

perhaps danger.”

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“I know. Take it. You can return it to me when you have

done what you came to do.” And silently, she rose and slipped

past him with a mere whisper of her robe.

He looked after her, dazed with wonder, until she passed

across the bridge, her white robe a brief glimmer against the

black mass of trees—a pale insubstantial ghost returning to the

darkness. Only the flute remained, a tangible link to the mystery

of her past, and perhaps to that of Kumo, and his grandmother,

and of Prince Okisada who had died, or been murdered, for his

own past.

Akitada went back, took up the flute, and put it tenderly

into his sleeve. Then he left the garden in search of food and a

place to sleep.

◆

Wherever Inspector Osawa would be bedding down, the con-

vict Taketsuna could only hope for a dry corner among the ser-

vants and horses. It was fully dark now, and no one seemed

about. Lights glimmered from the residence, and torches spread

a reddish glow over the stable yard.

As Akitada approached the stockade enclosing the stables,

kitchens, storehouses, and servants’ quarters, he heard the

crunch of hooves on gravel and the creaking of leather. A mo-

ment later a horseman passed him. Even in the dark, Akitada

could see that both animal and man drooped with fatigue. For

a moment, he thought the governor had sent someone after

them, but when he had followed the rider through the open

gate, he found him talking to one of the grooms. Apparently the

rider had come from some other Kumo holding with a report

for his master.

“Rough journey, Kita?” asked the groom.

The other man slid off his horse wearily. His voice was

indistinct with exhaustion, but Akitada caught the phrases

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143

“pack train to the coast,” “bad mountain roads,” and a place

name: “Aikawa.”

“Why not rest first?” offered the groom.

The rider shook his head and mumbled something Akitada

could not hear.

“A fire? What a turn-up!” the groom commented. “The mas-

ter’ll be up to check for certain now.”

They parted, the new arrival in direction of the residence,

and the groom with the horse toward the stables. Akitada fol-

lowed the groom.

Perhaps because of preoccupation or the noise of the

horse’s hooves on the gravel, the groom took no notice of Aki-

tada. He led the tired animal into a fenced pen next to the sta-

ble and began to feed and water it and rub it down. The

enclosure already held their mounts and others. As the groom

seemed occupied for a while, Akitada decided to take a look in

the stable.

He opened the heavy double door just enough to slip in—

and stopped in amazement. It was a large, open hall, very clean

and well lit by torches attached to the support beams. One

whole length of the stable was taken up by a raised dais, the

other by fodder, saddles, bridles, and assorted armor—helmets

and breastplates, bows and arrows and swords. On the dais

stood ten or twelve superb horses, dozing, feeding, drinking, or

being brushed by an attendant. Each animal was of a different

color or marking, each was held only by a thick straw rope

which passed under its belly and was tied to a large metal ring

on a ceiling beam to allow it maximum comfort of movement

within its space, and each seemed to have its own attendant sit-

ting close by or tending to his chores.

Akitada loved horses and had never seen so many superb

ones in one stable. The grooms smiled and nodded as he passed

slowly, admiring their charges. Several of the great men in the

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capital were also horse fanciers, but few could claim such a col-

lection. It must be worth a fortune.

He was about to speak to one of the grooms when a heavy

hand fell on his shoulder. A squat, burly fellow, wearing an

old hunting jacket and plain trousers pushed into boots, stood

behind him. The head groom?

He eyed Akitada suspiciously. “Who are you and what do

you want?”

Akitada gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry to trouble any-

one. I am Taketsuna and came today with Inspector Osawa. We

have been working late in the main house, and I can’t seem to find

my way about. I thought perhaps I was supposed to sleep here.”

“In the stable?” The head groom looked him up and down.

What he saw seemed to reassure him a little, but he remained

hostile. “We don’t like strangers snooping. The guest quarters

are over there.” He pointed in the direction of a low dark build-

ing Akitada had passed near the gate.

Akitada hung his head humbly. “I’m not a guest. I’m a

convict.”

Surprisingly, this information improved the groom’s attitude.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” he cried. “All of us here are con-

victs, or former convicts, or the sons and daughters of convicts.”