“No, but I need to see Otomi. Those monks have been snooping around again.”

Higekuro raised his brows. “Really? Well, she’ll be back shortly.”

Tora frowned. “I’ll wait for her then,” he said.

“Suit yourself.” Higekuro chuckled again and turned back to his practice.

Tora paced, getting upset and imagining the worst, until the door opened and Otomi and Ayako walked in, shopping baskets over their arms. He snapped, “Where the devil have you two been? Don’t you know it’s dangerous out there for two women alone?”

Otomi was frightened by his scowl, but her sister frowned and demanded, “What the devil business is it of yours?”

Higekuro cleared his throat. “Won’t you join us for a bite now that the girls are here, Tora?”

“Thanks, but I have no time.” Tora glared at Ayako. “Those damned monks found out where you live. I was worried about your sister.”

“Why?” She glared back.

Her father cleared his throat again and said, “It was kind of you, my friend, but I think Ayako can handle a couple of monks quite easily.”

Stung to the quick, Tora shot back, “How would you know? You haven’t seen them in action. You’re not safe if those bastards make a real effort. Just a couple of girls and a ...” He stopped.

“‘Cripple,’ were you going to say?” Higekuro’s laughter rumbled from his barrel-like chest. “My friend, I should be offended! How can you have so little faith in my skills and Ayako’s? Teaching self-defense is our business. And the locks on our doors are strong. Don’t worry! We will make sure that Otomi is not alone in the future. I don’t think those fellows will be back. They would be very foolish to risk a bad beating just for a pretty girl.” And he laughed again.

Ayako laughed also, and after a moment Otomi joined in.

Tora knew Ayako mocked him and was offended. He glowered at her and gave Otomi a reproachful look. “I’m warning you,” he said, “those monks are mean bastards.” This produced new gales of laughter. He snapped, “Forget it,” and turned on his heel.

At the door, he collided with two of Higekuro’s students, a couple of burly lieutenants from the garrison who looked scornfully at Tora’s plain blue gown and swaggered past him. Tora felt like starting a fight but controlled his temper.

Outside, another saffron robe had appeared on the street. This monk made no pretense of begging but strode purposefully up the street to the large, heavy gate belonging to Higekuro’s successful neighbor. His knock was answered quickly, and he disappeared inside.

Tora’s ego was too bruised to go back inside with another warning and get laughed at again. Instead he remembered his empty belly and headed for the market, hoping to pick up information with a meal.

After studying the market crowd, he stopped a passing vendor and exchanged a copper for a handful of hot chestnuts. The man scooped a steaming serving into Tora’s hands.

Tora howled. “May demons devour your testicles!” he cried, hopping about and tossing the hot chestnuts from one painful palm to the other.

The vendor watched with wide-eyed innocence. “You must hold them in your sleeve or you’ll burn your fingers, sir,” he advised.

“Thanks a lot for telling me,” Tora snapped and walked away.

“One of those stupid officials,” the vendor commented loudly to his next customer.

It was not a good beginning, but the chestnuts were tasty and warmed Tora as he looked for a friendly face, someone who might be inclined to chat with a stranger. He made a circuit of the entire market before deciding that Kazusa merchants were a singularly sullen tribe. Still hungry, he bought a bowl of buckwheat noodles.

“You have trouble with monks around here?” he asked the vendor, handing him his coppers.

The vendor ran an unfriendly eye over Tora. “Monks? No. They’re holy men who spend their money freely.” He counted the coins. “Not like some who rob a workingman of his few coppers,” he added, glaring at Tora’s blue robe.

“Hope your wife beats you,” Tora said and strolled off. But the vendor’s manner troubled him and, after a moment’s thought, he stepped behind a stand to adjust his clothing. He pulled the long gown over his sash until it resembled a loose shirt and stuffed his trousers into his boots. The black cap went into his sash, and he loosened his topknot a little. Satisfied that he no longer looked like an official, he returned to his assignment.

When he overheard a fat market woman and her female customer talking about the ex-governor, he moved closer. If he could help solve this puzzling crime, his master would be very pleased with him.

“What’s happened, grandma?” he asked the woman.

“Our old governor died last night,” she said, running bright black eyes over Tora’s tall figure. “A great man. It comes to all of us in the end, high-born or low, governor or beggar. It’s all one. The Buddha himself was a prince, and he became a beggar when he learned about death.”

With a familiar wheezing cough, a cracked voice asked, “But will it work the other way? I’d like to be governor for a change.”

The fat woman snorted. “More likely you’ll be reborn as a mangy dog.”

“Well, then I’ll lift my leg on you, you old turtle head,” cried the Rat, and choked on a paroxysm of wheezing laughter. The old woman gasped and seized one of her long radishes.

The Rat skipped nimbly out of her reach and pulled Tora with him. “Well,” he wheezed, “if it ain’t the gallant hero from the tribunal. How’d you make out with the skirt?”

“Ssh!” Tora looked around to see if they had been overheard. “Come on, you old rascal. I’ll trade you a cup of wine for what you know.”

The Rat’s eyes widened with delight. “I’ll never say no to that. I know a place close by.”

Even using a crutch the Rat moved so quickly that Tora had trouble keeping up. The old faker, he thought, but followed the hopping scarecrow, hoping to gather some prime information.

The Rat maintained his one-legged guise until they reached a tiny wine shop squeezed between two other small businesses. It accommodated only four or five guests at a time and was without customers at the moment. A wooden platform held several large earthen wine jars and a round-faced young woman with a sleeping baby strapped to her back. The Rat perched his skinny rear on a corner of the platform, saying, “Hey, sister. Pour us some of your best. My friend here’s paying.” Then he unstrapped the false stump, laying it next to his crutch, and straightened his leg with a sigh of relief.

“Still at your crooked game, I see,” Tora said with a grin.

The woman set out a flask of wine and two cups. Eyeing Tora, she asked, “What’s a handsome young fellow like you want with a broken-down rascal like this one?” But she gave the Rat an affectionate slap on the back.