With weak quavers from the patient, a shrill whine from the peddler, Tora’s deep voice, and the Rat’s wheezing commentary, the dissonant but cozy chat proceeded in unhurried fashion without the least reference to the purpose of their visit.

When Seimei’s store of advice was as exhausted as the old woman’s litany of complaints, the conversation began to lag. Tora stretched and said, “Well, it’s good to see old friends again, Jisai. Our master sent us to make sure those bastards that tripped you up did no permanent damage.”

His words were ill-advised. The peddler and his wife now fell to reciting a whole string of Jisai’s physical problems, supposedly incurred during the incident. His back ached, one hip was out of joint, a knee inexplicably refused to bend, and he had terrible headaches followed by bouts of dizziness. In short, he was totally disabled, could not work, did not sleep well at night, was in constant pain, would never work again. Doctors’ bills were mounting, what with two patients, and they had had nothing to eat for days.

Seimei gave a snort and lifted the lid of a pot that stood on a rickety bamboo stand beside him. “Bean soup?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.

“A kind neighbor brought it,” said the peddler. “A waste! The wife’s too sick to eat it cold, and I’m too weak to build a fire to heat it.” He sighed deeply and added, “Even if I had some wood.”

Seimei snorted again.

Tora said, “Maybe we can help.” He stretched out his hand for Seimei’s string of coppers. “Our master’s a very charitable man. He would wish us to leave a little something.”

Seimei, muttering under his breath, counted out a coin at a time until Tora withdrew his hand and placed a small stack of money before the old woman. She gave them a toothless smile and said, “A great man, your master. You’re blessed to be working for such a saint.”

“And you’re a wise woman, Auntie,” said Tora. He rose. “Well, we’d better go.” Seimei opened his mouth in outraged protest when Tora added casually, “By the way, there was a little blue flower among the stuff you sold the master. You remember it?”

The peddler nodded. “A fine piece.” he croaked. “Pure gold. Worth a whole string of coppers.”

Tora ignored this. “Remember where you got it?”

The peddler’s eyes narrowed. “Couldn’t say. I picked it up someplace. What’s so special about it?”

“Nothing. My master was going to throw it away, so I took it to give to my girl. Now she wants more stuff like it.”

“Would you spend some real money, say a silver bar?” the peddler suggested.

“That much? No kidding? Well, that’s too bad. My girl will be disappointed,” said Tora calmly, and stooped to gather up the coins he had laid before Jisai’s wife. “We’re on our way then. My master will be glad to hear that you’ve recovered and how good your business is.”

“Wait, wait!” cried the peddler, jumping up with astonishing agility. “I just remembered. I got it from one of the whores. She wanted drink money for her man. I don’t know where she got it. I don’t ask questions.”

“Who is she and where does she live?” Tora let the coppers jingle in his hand.

“Her name’s Jasmin. Lives near the market, I think.”

Surprisingly, the Rat grunted, “That’s Scarface’s slut. I know her.”

Tora stared at the Rat, then tossed the coins to the peddler. “There, you old rascal,” he snapped. “You’d better use the money to get back in business, or both you and your old woman will have your backbones poking through your navels.”

Outside Tora grasped the Rat by his bony shoulder. “What’s this about Jasmin and that Scarface bastard?”

The Rat twitched his shoulder free and whimpered, “Is that the thanks I get? I help you get what you want and you knock me around for it?”

“Sorry.” Tora let him go.

“I’m cold again.” The Rat shivered. “And thirsty.”

“No more wine,” warned Seimei.

Tora took Seimei’s arm and walked him a few steps away. “Look,” he said, “this guy needs wine to go on. You’ve got your work, and your proper robe and hat, and your medicines, and your master and me to nag. He’s got nothing. Wine is all he lives for. Not everybody’s as lucky as we are.”

Seimei blinked. Then he said, “But wine has ruined him. It will kill him. Look at the pathetic creature. And he calls me an old geezer!”

Tora sighed. “Dying is easy; it’s the living that’s hard. Wine makes him forget a little.”

Seimei stared at the Rat. “How old are you?” he called to him.

The Rat cocked his head. “Fifty-two. And you?”

“I shall be sixty,” Seimei said proudly, straightening his back and giving the Rat a pitying glance. “You look worn out, poor fellow. Let’s go find some warm place where you can rest a little before we go on.”

The Rat knew all the wine shops and led them to a place where they could warm their backs near the cooking ovens and their stomachs with a flask of warm wine.

“All right,” said Tora. “Start talking!”

The Rat drank deeply and said, “Far as I can tell, this Scarface showed up a couple of weeks ago and started working the street girls. Then he got to collecting from the vendors. They say he takes in a lot of money, but he gambles. Jasmin, the stupid skirt, is besotted with him.” The Rat shook his head and drank again. “He’s ugly enough to scare a ghost and he beats her.”

Tora nodded. “We met. He had a couple of thugs with him, a big drooling idiot and a short weasel of a guy.”

“Yushi and Jubei. Better watch yourself. They use knives and they don’t ask ‘May I?’“

Seimei did not like the sound of this. “Who is this Jasmin?” he asked nervously.

“A friend of a friend,” Tora said. “I guess we’d better go ask her about that flower. You’ve had enough wine for today, Rat. Let’s go.”

Outside, darkness had fallen. A bitter wind whistled through the narrow streets and blew bits of refuse and dead leaves along. They passed through dark alleys where rats scurried away and drunks and vagrants were curled up in corners. Gradually the glow of lights rose above the dark roofs.

“The market,” said Tora.

Seimei shivered, more with dread than cold, for he wore a quilted gown under his blue robe. He was not used to seeing so much filth and misery in one day and worried about meeting Scarface and his friends. The market seemed to lie at the center of all their troubles. They had started their ill-fated visit there and kept returning to it. Each time it led to greater unpleasantness. It was almost as if he were trapped in some sort of maze from which there was no escape.