and told him in a weak voice to deliver it to Sakamoto, making his

apologies. “It’s not as if I were a common messenger,” he sniffed,

“or as if there were any need to discuss anything with Sakamoto.

Just hand the letter to a servant and wait for a reply. Sakamoto

may, of course, rush right over here to apologize for that lout of a servant who turned us away so rudely last night, but I have no intention of moving to his house. I’m very comfortable right here.”

And so he was, sitting in a nest of bedding with a brazier

warming the air, a flask of wine beside him, and the remnants of

his morning meal on a tray. Akitada took the letter with a bow

and departed happily.

This morning there was activity at the Sakamoto house. The

gates stood wide open, revealing a rather weedy courtyard and

dilapidated stables. A groom was walking a handsome horse

around the courtyard. Evidently another guest had arrived. The

professor would be relieved to hear that Inspector Osawa

preferred the inn to his villa. Akitada saw that the horse, a very

fine dappled animal, had been ridden hard. Then something

about it struck him as familiar. Yes, he was almost certain that

this was one of the horses from Kumo’s stable. Had Kumo him-

self followed them to Minato? But Kumo’s groom had told the

mine foreman that Kumo would want to inspect the fire.

“Hey, you!” One of the house servants, a fat youth who

seemed to be eating something, waved to him from the house.

“What do you want?” he demanded when Akitada came to him.

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

171

Akitada held up his letter and explained.

The fat youth took another bite from his rice dumpling,

chewed, and thought about it. “Wait here,” he finally told him,

and waddled off. Akitada walked into the stone-paved entry.

Scuffed wooden steps led up to a long corridor. Somewhere a

door creaked and slid closed. He heard the sounds of conversa-

tion, and then the door squeaked again. The fat youth reap-

peared, followed by the long-faced, middle-aged servant from

the night before. He still looked ill-tempered. Holding out his

hand, he said in a peremptory tone, “You can give it to me. I’m

in charge. I’ll see the master gets it.”

Akitada shook his head. “Sorry. I’m to give it to Professor

Sakamoto in person. Tell him it’s from the governor.”

The long face lengthened. “The professor has guests. You’ll

have to come back later.”

Akitada was intrigued by a conference which was so impor-

tant that Sakamoto could not be interrupted by a messenger

from the governor. Drawing himself up, he said sternly, “Do you

mean to tell me that you did not inform your master of Inspec-

tor Osawa’s visit yesterday?”

Recognition dawned belatedly, and the man flushed. “Oh.

Well, no. There hasn’t been time. The professor did not get back

until quite late.” And then in no condition to take in such news,

thought Akitada. “And this morning we had an unexpected

guest. If you would tell your master, I’m sure he’ll understand.

Perhaps the professor could call on him later?”

This did not suit Akitada at all. He said, “Don’t be a fool, man.

Inspector Osawa is still angry about being turned away yesterday.

He asked me to deliver this personal message from the governor

because he is ill, a fact he blames entirely on being refused shelter by you. The message is bound to be important and urgent. If you

make me go back to him with another refusal, he will return to

Mano and report the snub. Your master will be in trouble.”

172

I . J . P a r k e r

That shook the surly servant. He glared at the fat youth,

who was leaning against the wall picking his nose, told Akitada

to wait, and disappeared. Akitada ignored the hulking lout and

sat down to remove his boots. Then he stepped up into the

house.

The corridor led to a room overlooking the lake. It appeared

to be empty. Sliding doors to the veranda and garden beyond

had been pushed back for a lovely view across the shimmering

water to Mount Kimpoku. The garden sloped down to the

shore, terminating in a pavilion which appeared to project out

over the water—the pavilion where the Second Prince had died.

Two men were standing at its balustrade watching the boats

on the lake. One was certainly tall enough to be Kumo. They

were joined by a third. The crabby servant was reporting his

visit to the professor, the shorter, white-haired man. The profes-

sor said something to his tall guest and then hurried with the

servant toward the house.

Akitada hoped that Kumo, if it was indeed Kumo down

there in the pavilion, would stay well away from the house while

he gave his message to the professor.

The professor’s eyes looked slightly bloodshot, his right

temple was bruised, and there was a deep scratch on one cheek-

bone, mementos of last night’s bender and the tumble into the

ditch. But this morning his beard and hair were neatly combed,

and he wore a clean silk robe, somewhat threadbare but pre-

sentable. He scowled at Akitada.

“What’s all this?” he said, matching a curt nod to Akitada’s

bow. “My servant tells me you have a letter from the governor?

Can you make it quick? The high constable is here.”

The irritable tone was probably due to a hangover. Akitada

bowed again. “I serve as secretary to Mr. Osawa, the governor’s

inspector. Mr. Osawa wished to put His Excellency’s letter into

your hands in person. Unfortunately, we found you absent from

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

173

home yesterday, and today Mr. Osawa is too ill to come himself.

Rather than causing a further delay, he has asked me to deliver

it.” He handed over the governor’s message.

Akitada’s speech caused Sakamoto to narrow his eyes and

look at him more sharply. Then he unfolded the letter and

glanced at it. “Oh, bother!” he grumbled. “I have absolutely

nothing to add to the case. Well, you’d better come along while

I respond to this. I see he expects a reply.”

They went to the room overlooking the lake, evidently

Sakamoto’s study, and comfortably though plainly furnished

with well-worn mats, old bookcases, and a large desk with writ-

ing implements and a stack of paper. Two screens warded off

cold drafts and a large bronze brazier the chill of winter.

Today there was no need for either. The sun shone brightly

outside and no breeze stirred the trees. As Sakamoto reread

the letter, Akitada watched the pavilion. Kumo still leaned on

the balustrade, looking across the lake. It struck Akitada that the pavilion was perfectly suited for plotting treason. It was surrounded by open ground or water, assuring absolute privacy to

anyone in the pavilion. No doubt that was why Kumo and

Sakamoto had been talking there now. Akitada wished he

could have heard their conversation.

Sakamoto gave a grunt, and Akitada took his eyes from the

pavilion. The professor was frowning, almost glowering at him.

“Who exactly are you?” he asked. “Have we met before?

Osawa never had a personal secretary on previous visits.”

Apart from their belligerent tone, the questions were proba-

bly due to Kumo’s visit. Kumo had shown a suspicious interest

in the fact that they were headed for Minato. But Akitada had to

answer and thought it best to stick to the original story. What-

ever Kumo suspected, he could have no proof that Akitada was

not what he pretended to be, or that Osawa’s trip was somehow