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“Terrible,” cried Yamada. “My dear Taketsuna, I wish I had

known. Oh, dear! Forgive me. Lord Sugawara, I mean. You will

have to do something about that man, Governor.”

Mutobe stiffened his back. “Certainly. I will have him ar-

rested immediately. I had no idea. Up until now there were

just a few concerns about his rough treatment of criminals and

vagrants or prostitutes. . . .” Seeing Akitada’s expression, he

flushed again. “Well. I tried to discipline him, but Kumo

stepped in to stop me. Then this business with Toshito hap-

pened.” He faltered miserably. An uncomfortable silence fell.

Mutobe asked diffidently, “I trust we can settle my son’s affairs

once and for all now, my lord? It was suicide, not murder?”

Akitada did not think much of the way Mutobe had carried

out his duties, but there were extenuating circumstances. At

least now that his son’s name would be cleared, the man should

have the time to tend to business, and Akitada needed his coop-

eration. He started to explain Okisada’s death when he had

second thoughts.

From what everyone had said about fugu poison, such a

death was painful. Would a spoiled prince like Okisada really

choose this method to end his life? Especially when his reason

was to avoid the pain of a stomach disorder? How ill had

Okisada really been? He had been well enough to travel and

attend the gathering at Professor Sakamoto’s house. And had

not his fellow conspirators, with the exception of the alcoholic

professor, been rather complacent about his death and the

failure of their enterprise? Only the professor had been truly

upset. And perhaps Shunsei. The monk’s faith in his beloved’s

achieving Buddhahood might have overcome his grief. But

Kumo, Taira, and the physician had only been concerned with

getting young Mutobe convicted.

And then there were Kumo’s strange final words. Something

about making a sacrifice for his emperor.

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373

Mutobe cleared his throat. “May I ask, my lord, what it is

that you found out?”

Akitada was spared an answer. From outside came the

sound of voices, and then the door flew open and revealed one

of Mutobe’s men trying to bar Tora’s way.

“Let him in!” Akitada snapped.

Mutobe gave him a reproachful glance and nodded to his

guard. The small incident reminded Akitada of his awkward

position. He no longer had his imperial orders and had to

depend on Mutobe’s cooperation.

Tora looked slightly shaken. He bowed to them, then ad-

dressed Akitada. “I went back for Turtle and that swine Wada.”

Akitada nodded. “I hope you tied up Wada. He is under

arrest.”

Tora shook his head. “He’s dead, sir.”

Akitada gave him a sharp look. “How?”

Tora hesitated. “Er, it wasn’t me, sir. I found him dead when

I got there, sir. Turtle claims the soldiers did it.”

“Nonsense! We would have seen them stop. Kumo was in

such a hurry to catch up with us that he did not bother to slow

down.” Akitada frowned. And that was strange. Wada must have

been dead already or unconscious, or he would surely have

cried out to Kumo. Getting to his feet, he said, “Excuse me, gen-

tlemen. I think I’ll have a word with my lieutenant’s servant.

Come, Tora.”

Outside, he found a grinning and whistling Turtle holding

the reins of the three horses. One of them had the corpse of

Wada slung over its saddle. Blood dripped slowly into the

dust. Akitada lifted the dead man’s head and saw that his throat

had been slit. It did not look like a sword wound, and his

eyes went to the servant’s waist. There was a bulge under his

jacket.

“Show me your knife!” he ordered.

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The smug expression on the small cripple’s face changed

to unease. After a moment, he reached into his jacket and

produced a small, sharp knife.

Akitada inspected it. The blade was clean, but traces of

blood still clung to the joint between blade and hilt. “Did he

give you trouble?” he asked mildly, gesturing toward the corpse.

A nod and a small cringing wiggle were his answer.

“You thought he might alert the soldiers?”

Akitada was rewarded with a more energetic nod and a

tentative grin.

“That took courage. The soldiers might have caught you.”

Turtle cried, “I was quick, your honor. He was sitting up

and looking at the soldiers coming toward us. I could tell he

was glad to see them. I pulled my knife and reached around him

like so.” He gestured vividly. “Then I jumped behind a bush

like my master told me to.” Turtle straightened his shoulders

proudly and gave Tora a wide smile. When Tora remained

impassive, Turtle turned back to Akitada. “I did right, didn’t I,

your honor?”

“You did right.” Akitada returned the knife. “Put Wada with

the other corpses, Tora. I’m glad your servant spared you the

trouble.”

Tora growled. “He deprived me of the satisfaction. The bas-

tard should’ve died before he was born.” And with that peculiar

logic, Tora slung the corpse of Wada, once the most feared man

on Sadoshima, over his shoulder and walked away.

Akitada looked after him with affection and then retraced

his steps to the passage where he had fought Kumo. The body

was gone, though large bloodstains still marked where it and

the other slain men had lain. How quickly it had been over! All

those weeks in the mine he had thought of what he would say

and do to Kumo when they finally met face to face. It had

turned out very differently. They had exchanged few words, and

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375

those had been mostly Kumo’s, accusing Akitada of bloodlust.

He knew now that Kumo had been wrong, that a man may feel

a certain exhilaration in fighting for his life or for a righteous

cause, but that he would never kill for mere pleasure.

Surely Kumo must have known that he might die. He

had simply not been a sword fighter. Akitada did not pride

himself on special expertise and he had been exhausted, yet he

had known immediately and with astonishing disappointment

that the man was not much of an adversary. Kumo had talked

about sacrifice and bowed with great reverence—as if he were

about to carry out a sacred duty. Strange! The puzzle nagged

at him.

Akitada went where Kumo had stood. As he recalled, the

man had turned slightly toward his right. All that could be seen

in that direction were two of the farm buildings and between

them a narrow slice of the sparkling bay. No temple. No small

shrine. No flying banners. Just a bit of water with a few fishing

boats, some gulls, and that ship at anchor.

It was odd that there should be such a large ship outside a

fishing harbor. What was it doing here? Why was it not at

Mano?

He walked back up to the highway and looked across the

houses of this small town. There was nothing of any signifi-

cance on the waterfront. All the more substantial buildings—a

temple and a few large farms like this one—were on higher

ground. He shook his head in confusion and decided that he did

not want to talk to Mutobe yet, not until he settled some of his

uncertainties, some of the niggling suspicions in the back of his

mind. And so he started walking along the road.

Something about the way Okisada had died still dissatisfied

him. Shunsei had told him that Okisada habitually consumed

fugu and had done so the night of the dinner because he