stroll before bedtime. And when he had followed Sakamoto, he

had assumed another reveler was on his way home. But now, on

this quiet street leading to the lakeside villas, he knew someone

had been watching and following them, and had done so from

the time they left the Bamboo Grove.

The steps ceased abruptly. Either the other man had stopped

or, like Akitada, he was walking on the soft grass. Akitada

stepped back into the street and resumed his walk but increased

his speed. As soon as he reached the first houses of Minato, he

slipped into a narrow alley between two buildings and waited.

Nothing happened.

The other man was too wily. Well, he had time, and his

pursuer had two choices. He could either give up the pursuit and

go home, or he could come and investigate what had become

of Akitada. A long time passed. The great bell at the temple

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sounded again, its deep peal muffled in the mist. It was wet

where Akitada crouched; cold water dripped steadily down his

back from the roof of one of the houses. He moved a little, but

found more drips, and his legs began to cramp. Rising to his

feet, he decided to give up, when he heard the crunching of

gravel again.

The small man in the brown clothes walked past. He was

almost close enough to touch and scanned the houses opposite.

For a moment, Akitada was tempted to jump out and force

some answers from him, but he knew that the man would sim-

ply deny having followed him. The other’s face was not visible,

but Akitada knew he was the birdlike individual he had seen

earlier at the shrine. And now he noticed also that this man had

a very slight peculiarity in his gait. His right leg seemed stiffer than the left.

Keeping to the dark shadows of the houses, Akitada fol-

lowed silently, but eventually he lost him to the darkness.

Somewhat uneasy, he returned to the inn and let himself

quietly into the kitchen, where he took off his wet shirt and

pants and reassured himself that the flute was safe. Then he

slipped into the bedding, falling instantly into an exhausted

sleep.

C H A P T E R T E N

T H E P RO F E S S O R

The next day Osawa had a cold.

Akitada became aware of this when their hostess, surpris-

ingly rosy and handsome in a brightly colored cotton robe and

with her hair tied up neatly, shook him awake because she had

to start the fire and rush hot gruel and wine to Osawa’s room.

She seemed preoccupied, and he got up quickly, dressed in his

dry blue robe, put away his bedding, and laid the fire for her.

Then he went outside to get water from the well. The sky

had cleared overnight, and a fresh breeze blew from the ocean,

reminding him of the distance, in more than one sense, between

himself and his family. But he put aside the troubling thoughts;

the business at hand was the murder of the Second Prince.

Drawing the water and carrying the pail into the kitchen, he

pondered the ramblings of the drunken professor, but could

make nothing of them.

Having finished his chores, Akitada washed himself and

retied his topknot. His beard itched and he wished for a barber,

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but the facial hair was his best disguise in the unlikely case

that someone here knew him from the capital or from Echigo. It

occurred to him to check his saddlebag in the kitchen. His own

robe was still inside, tightly folded as he had left it. He slid a finger inside the collar and felt the stiffness made by the docu-

ments. Satisfied, he tucked the flute inside the robe and closed

the saddlebag. Then he fortified himself with the rice dumpling

offered by the hostess, who was assembling a tray for Osawa,

and went to have a look at Minato by daylight.

This morning Minato sparkled freshly after the rain and

seemed an ordinary, pleasant place after all. Akitada saw no sign

of his shadow from the night before and wondered whether

fatigue and the eerie, misty evening had made him imagine

things. Shops were opening, and people swept in front of their

doors or walked to work. The temple doors stood wide, and a

young monk was setting out trays of incense for early worship-

pers. Only the shrine lay as silent as the night before behind its

grove of trees and thick bamboo.

Akitada turned down the street to the Bamboo Grove. Before

him the lake stretched like a sheet of glistening silver. Fishermen’s boats were plying their trade in the far distance, and closer in

some anglers trailed their lines in the placid waters. And every-

where gulls swooped, brilliant flashes of white against the azure

sky, their piercing cries a part of the freshness of the morning.

To the northwest, Mount Kimpoku loomed, its top bright in

the sun. It reminded him of the tall and striking Kumo, high

constable of Sadoshima, and Mutobe’s choice as arch-traitor.

Kumo’s status and his influence over the local people made

him an obvious leader, and his wealth could finance a military

campaign. And, perhaps most importantly, his family believed

itself wronged.

But the Kumo he had met, while something of a mystery,

did not fit Akitada’s image of a ruthless avenger of family honor

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

169

or of a man driven by hunger for power. According to his

people, Kumo was modest and kind. The man who had allevi-

ated the suffering of those condemned to work in the mines

surely could not have ordered the murder of little Jisei.

Haru’s restaurant was still dark and silent after its late hours

the night before, but in an adjoining shed a man was scrubbing

a large table. All around him stood empty barrels and baskets,

and a strong odor of fish hung in the air. Akitada called out a

“Good morning.”

The man looked up. Of an indeterminate age, he had the

deeply tanned, stringy physique of a fisherman. Seeing Akitada’s

plain blue robe and his neatly tied hair, he bowed. “Good morn-

ing to you. How can I help you?”

“You own the Bamboo Grove?”

“My wife Haru does.”

“Then you must be the man whose catches are famous

hereabouts.”

Haru’s husband grinned. “I may be, but if it’s fish you came

for, you’re too early. The first catch won’t be in until later.

What did you have in mind? Eel, turtle, octopus, shrimp,

abalone, clams, bream, trout, mackerel, angelfish, flying fish,

or blowfish?”

Akitada smiled. “Blowfish?”

“Yes. Fugu. It’s a great delicacy. But expensive.” His eyes swept over Akitada again, estimating his wealth.

“It’s for my master, who’s visiting Minato,” Akitada explained.

The man’s face brightened. “Ah! Of course. Many gentlemen

enjoy fugu here. I can have some for you by evening. How many? You want them prepared, don’t you? My wife’s an expert

at removing the poison. You’d be well advised to let her do it.

Otherwise . . . well, your master wouldn’t live long enough to

thank you for your service.” He paused. “And his family might

accuse you of murder.”

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Akitada said, “I hope not. Has that ever happened here?”

“Not with any fish we’ve prepared,” the man said almost

belligerently.

Akitada told him that he would consult with his master. As

he returned to the inn, he wondered if Haru’s expertise with

blowfish had come in question recently.

Osawa was up and freshly shaven but complained of feeling

too ill to leave his room. He handed Akitada the governor’s letter