do know they are looking for Toshito and Masako. And that

they’ll kill them if they find them.” He sagged and brushed a

hand over his eyes. Yamada wept openly.

Tora let out a slow breath. “All right,” he said. “I’ll find him

myself. Tell me everything he did up to the time he disappeared.”

Mutobe began the tale, with Yamada supplying what he

knew. The governor concluded, “That fool Osawa decided to

get married and left your master to travel the last leg of the

trip alone. Lord Sugawara disappeared on the road between

Tsukahara and Mano.”

“Or at that monastery,” said Tora. He was no friend of Bud-

dhist monasteries, remembering only too well a past encounter

with murderous monks.

Mutobe protested. “Our monks are very gentle and devout.

No, I know what must have happened. I’m convinced he

was caught by Kumo and the others who tried to pin the

murder of the prince on my son and me. I think he did solve

the case and was on his way back to clear us when they stopped

him.”

“If that’s true, then they knew his real identity.”

“Not from me,” said Mutobe sharply.

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Tora chewed his lip. It was possible that something else had

given the master away. He wished he could retrace his master’s

steps, but there was no time. “And you think this fellow Kumo’s

behind it?”

Mutobe nodded.

“Does he have soldiers?”

“No. That is not permitted. Kumo’s family lost all its privi-

leges. But he employs many people and is very wealthy. If he

wished to rebel, he could raise a small army very quickly.”

Tora wrestled with this for a moment. His background had

made him regard the privileged classes with suspicion, and his

instincts were on the side of men like Kumo who had risen

in spite of the opposition they faced. “From what you say, he

employs farmworkers, house servants, and the men who work

his mine. I don’t see any of those attacking my lord.”

Mutobe looked at him bleakly. “Why not? You see the situa-

tion I’m in. Kumo controls all of Sadoshima, even my head-

quarters and staff.”

Tora looked from Mutobe to Yamada. Yamada nodded his

head mournfully. No help here, Tora decided, and got to his feet.

“I’ll need a pass to travel without being stopped. There’s an ob-

noxious police officer in town who’s been threatening me al-

ready.” Suddenly it struck him that those threats were completely

irrational unless Wada knew or suspected why Tora had come,

and that must mean that he knew who Yoshimine Taketsuna

really was. The job no longer looked so hopeless after all.

The governor wrote out a safe-conduct, inked his seal, and

impressed it on the paper. Handing the pass to Tora, he said, “I

doubt it will do you much good, considering my position, but

you have my best wishes.” He glanced at Tora’s sword and

smiled a little. “Normally my guards would have taken that

from you, but it appears that I have become expendable. Be

careful and hold on to your sword. You may need it.”

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

253

Tora stiffened into a snappy salute. “Thank you, Excellency.

If I come across news of your son or the young lady, I’ll let you

know.”

◆

Turtle was huddling in the shade of the tribunal wall and

jumped up when he saw Tora stepping through the gate.

“Whereto now, master?” he cried.

Tora blinked at the westering sun. The brightness from the

bay was blinding. Hmm,” he said. “It’s almost evening. How

about something to drink, Turtle? You know a quiet place where

one can have a good cup of wine without being bothered by

police? Preferably a place not owned by one of your relatives?”

“Oh, yes, master. Follow me.” Turtle hobbled off, grinning

happily.

Tora grinned, too. He liked being called master and he had

a plan.

Turtle took him to a noodle shop in one of the alleys behind

the market. This time of day, it was already crowded with farm-

ers and market women snatching a quick bowl of soup before

returning to their wares for the last sales of the day. Nobody

paid any attention to them. There was a line in front of an

immensely fat woman with a large iron kettle. She dipped out

the soup with a bamboo ladle and took their money. Turtle

whispered to her and she jerked her head toward the back.

They went to sit, Turtle at a little distance from Tora, and in

a moment she came and brought two bowls of noodle soup, a

large flask of wine, and two cups. Tora paid and poured for

himself. Then he sampled the soup.

“A cup of wine would go well after sitting in the dust outside

provincial headquarters,” Turtle hinted.

“No wine for you,” said Tora, smacking his lips. “Eat! I need

your advice.”

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Turtle’s eyes opened a little wider. He gobbled the soup and

moved closer. “Yes, master?”

Tora flinched away. “Why don’t you take a bath more often?”

“Water wears down a person’s skin, and then sickness gets

in. What you should do is rub plenty of oil on yourself to keep

your skin fat and thick. Ask me something else.”

“Idiot. What I meant is, you stink so bad you ruin a man’s

appetite. I want you to take a bath today. I’ll pay for it.”

Turtle’s face fell. “Please don’t make me, master. It’s my life

I’m risking,” he whined. “If you like, I’ll stop using the oil.”

“Oh, never mind. I’ll hold my breath. Now, here’s what I

want to know. That Lieutenant Wada, do you know where

he lives?”

Turtle nodded. “Inside the provincial headquarters.”

“Not good. Too many guards and soldiers about. What does

he do at night, after work?”

Turtle’s eyes got bigger. He rubbed his hands and grinned.

“You want to jump him in a dark alley, master? Beat him up

good, eh?”

Tora glanced around. Nobody was near them. “No. I want

to nab him.”

Turtle’s eyes almost popped out. “Oh, heavens! Oh, dear!

Oh, Buddha! If you do that, you’ll have to kill him or it’ll be

both our necks.”

“I may kill him if I have to. Now, how can I get him alone?”

Turtle leaned closer and whispered.

He whispered so long that Tora’s face turned red from hold-

ing his breath, but he started to smile, and reached for the flask

to fill Turtle’s cup.

C H A P T E R F I F T E E N

T H E M I N E

Later Akitada guessed that he had been in his grave for weeks.

Telling the days apart was impossible in a place where there was

no daylight. He gauged the passage of time by the visits of the

old crone with his food. Once a day she crept in with her

lantern, blinding him by shining it on his face, put down full

bowls of food and water, took up the empty ones, and left.

Before, he had existed blessedly somewhere between sleep

and unconsciousness. With the return of reason came confu-

sion, pain, fear, and panic. The total darkness made him think

he was blind until the stench of the stagnant, fetid air brought

the realization that he had been buried alive. And that discovery

had driven him back into a semiconscious state which resem-

bled dreams. Or in his case, nightmares.

The first time he thought his jailer was part of his hallucina-

tions. As he passed in and out of consciousness in this utterly

dark place, a distant clinking became the hammering of car-

penters, or the clicking of the gigcho ball when hit with its stick, 256

I . J . P a r k e r

or the tapping of the bamboo ladle against the stone water basin