they merely turned and stared at him in the way of country

people who see few strangers. When Akitada found the cross-

roads to Mano, he left Tsukahara behind, breathing more easily.

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

227

If he had been familiar with the island, he would have

tried to find a less obvious route. He could not rid himself of the conviction that, after the unnatural calm of the past days, his

enemies were about to act. Whoever had arranged to steal his

papers and send Osawa back to Minato knew very well who

Taketsuna really was and why he was in Sadoshima. He or they

would hardly let him live. The most frustrating thing was that

he still did not know exactly with whom he was dealing.

Toward noon of a tense but uneventful journey, Akitada

became aware of hunger. In his rush, he had left the monastery

without eating or taking provisions for the day. Though he still

had a few coppers, he did not dare use them. But when the road

crossed a stream, he broke his journey. He took some of the

baggage off the mule—an astonishingly well behaved creature—

and led both animals, one after the other, down to the water.

Then he searched the saddlebags for food and came up with

Osawa’s silk pouch full of coins and a stale and misshapen rice

dumpling left over from some earlier picnic. The money he put

back, shaking his head. Osawa had been truly upset, to go off

without his funds. Having eaten the dumpling and drunk his

fill from the stream, he loaded the mule again and returned to

the road.

By now he was puzzled that he had been allowed to get

this far. There were few other travelers on the road, and none

gave him a second glance on the final stretch to Mano. When

the road turned westward, the sun sank blindingly low and

horse and mule showed the first signs of fatigue. But he passed

over the last hillock and saw Sawata Bay spread before him, a

sheet of molten gold. The huddle of brown roofs that was Mano

was little more than a mile away. He had done it. Possibly there

was some slight danger still as he passed through town, but by

then he would be too close to provincial headquarters to suffer

more than a minor delay until Mutobe was notified.

228

I . J . P a r k e r

Blinking against the brightness of sun and sea, he tried to

increase his speed to a canter, but the mule finally balked. He

pulled on its lead; it snorted and shook its head and tried to dig

in its hooves.

Preoccupied with the recalcitrant beast, Akitada did not see

the men stepping from the trees up ahead. When he did, his

stomach lurched. Still blinded by the sun, he squinted at them.

There were six, all brawny men with hard faces and some sort of

weapon in their hands. Highway robbers? Pirates on a landfall?

Akitada stopped his horse and peered at them. Their clothes

looked rough but serviceable, too good for robbers or pirates.

And there was a certain uniformity about them. All wore brown

jackets with leather belts about their middle and a chain

wrapped about that. Constables?

Then a familiar red-coated figure stepped out into the road

to wait, legs apart and arms folded, in front of the six men

in brown. He was armed with sword and long bow. Wada. The

law. He would be arrested and escorted to the provincial jail.

Akitada almost smiled with relief.

Urging his horse forward, he stopped before Wada. His

relief faded a little when he saw the man’s face.

An unpleasant smile twitched the lieutenant’s thin mus-

tache. “Ah,” he said, “what have we here? A convict, and in pos-

session of a horse and a mule. We met only recently, I believe,

and already I find you a runaway?”

“I did not run away, Lieutenant. I’ve been on an assignment

for the governor and am on my way back.” Akitada glanced over

his shoulder and added, “I would be glad of an escort, though.

Someone may be trying to kill me.”

Wada guffawed and turned to his constables, who grinned.

“Did you hear that? Someone’s trying to kill him! He’s funny, this

one. Says he’s on official business and wants a police escort, what?”

They burst into laughter.

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

229

“Silence!” barked Wada.

The laughter stopped abruptly. The way they looked at him

reminded Akitada of a pack of hungry dogs who had found a

helpless rabbit.

Wada seemed to be enjoying himself. “The fun’s over. Who

would send a convict on a trip with a horse and a mule and all

sorts of valuable equipment?” he sneered, then waved his men

forward. “Search him and the saddlebags.”

The constables jumped into action. In a moment, Akitada

was pulled from his horse and pushed into the dirt. Two men

knelt on him, pulling his arms behind his back and wrapping a

thin chain around both wrists. It was standard procedure in the

apprehension of criminals, but he had never realized how

painful tightly wrapped chain could be and gritted his teeth to

keep from crying out. He had to remain calm at all cost. Wada,

no matter how ruthless he was in his treatment of convicts

and how stupid he might be in this instance, was still an official, and one who had been appointed to his present position

by someone in authority. He was doing his duty in arresting the

supposed escapee. The problem could be worked out later. The

important thing was to be cooperative and not give the man an

excuse for more physical abuse.

They pulled him to his feet and searched him. The impe-

rial documents being lost, along with Mutobe’s safe-conduct,

Akitada submitted meekly, which did not prevent them from

pummeling and kicking him a few times.

They found nothing, but the mule’s burden caused an out-

cry. “Papers,” cried one of the searchers. “A flute,” cried another, tossing Ribata’s precious instrument to Wada. Akitada winced,

but Wada caught it, glanced at it incuriously, and tossed it back.

This time the flute fell between the mule’s hooves, and Akitada

instinctively moved to rescue it. He was jerked back instantly

and painfully.

230

I . J . P a r k e r

Wada cried, “Wait. It must be valuable. Pick it up. What else

is there?”

“This, Lieutenant,” cried a man triumphantly, holding up

Osawa’s silk pouch and jingling it. “He’s a thief, all right.”

Akitada silently cursed Osawa’s forgetfulness.

Wada rushed over. He opened the pouch, shook out and

counted the silver and copper, and then extracted some papers.

“Belongs to a man called Osawa,” he said. “A provincial inspec-

tor of taxes.” He almost purred when he asked Akitada, “What

did you do with him?”

“Nothing. Osawa had to go back to Minato and sent me on

by myself.” Akitada knew how this must sound, but was shocked

by the viciousness of Wada’s reaction. Wada snatched one of

the short whips from a constable’s leather belt and lashed

him across the face with it. The pain was much sharper than

he could have imagined. Tears blinded his eyes, and he heard

Wada sneer, “I warned you that the fun is over. You don’t listen

well, do you?”

Akitada was seized by an unreasoning fury. The insult was

too much. He would kill the man, but not now, not while Wada

had the upper hand. Focusing was difficult. He blinked away the

tears. His face was bleeding, and he licked the salty drops from

his lips. “Lieutenant,” he forced himself to beg, “please take me

to the governor. He’ll explain.”

“The governor?” Wada’s eyes grew round with pretended