Akitada shouted back, “Good morning, Yori. Thank you, but Seimei will do it. Ah, here he comes now. Keep up your practice.”

Seimei had served Akitada’s father before him. He was well past seventy now and his thin back was bent from years of service. He moved slowly, but carried himself with the natural dignity of a respected family elder. There was no need for him to perform such humble services for his master, but the old man insisted, and his presence was a comfort to Akitada.

Seimei bowed as he entered the room and set down the tray with two bowls of rice gruel. “Will you be wearing your ordinary robe today?”

“Yes.” Akitada eyed his food with distaste. The thought of his problems at the ministry had taken his appetite.

Seimei departed with another bow, and husband and wife sat on the veranda, sipping their gruel to the accompaniment of more thwacks and ferocious language. From time to time, Tamako glanced uneasily at her husband’s thin features. She was too well-bred to pry into her husband’s affairs, but after a long silence, she said cautiously, “I suppose your new position entails many difficult cases?”

“What? Oh. Not at all. Just dull routine. Though there is enough of it.” He fell back into his black mood and stared into his half-filled bowl. When she reached across to touch his forehead, he raised his eyes, surprised.

“You’re not eating. I wondered if you might be feverish. There has been talk about smallpox.”

“I’m perfectly well.” He took a small sip from the bowl to prove it. “There are always rumors about some disease. We’ve had twenty years without a major outbreak of smallpox in the capital. You must not pay attention to such tales.”

“They say if the illness has stayed away for many years, it returns with much greater virulence,” she said defensively.

“Nonsense.”

Tamako bit her lip. She was becoming impatient with her husband’s mood. “Then what is the matter?” she demanded bluntly, adding for form’s sake, “Please forgive my rude curiosity.”

Akitada looked at her and set aside the half-eaten gruel. “I ran into an old acquaintance yesterday. Do you recall the very important guest we entertained in Echigo?”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “His Majesty’s private secretary?”

Her husband nodded. “He has retired and become a monk. They all seem to do that nowadays. Afraid of death, I suppose. He asked about you and Yori.”

She bowed slightly. “I am honored, but I have not forgiven him for putting you in such danger on that terrible island.”

“We owe him our present comfortable life. But he reminded me ...” Akitada stopped himself. He had never told her—partly to spare her the details of the horror he had lived through, and partly because Haseo’s story was still unfinished, the solemn promise made to a dying friend still unkept. Only Tora knew, because he had been there with them after that final, terrible battle. Since then, nearly five years had passed, five years during which Akitada had been chained to his duties in Echigo and after his return had dealt with a series of family catastrophes. And now there were new duties in the ministry: a promotion to first secretary, all the meetings and attendance at official affairs that entailed, piles of paperwork, and a bitter enemy for his superior.

Some days he felt the shame of that half-forgotten promise almost like a physical blow, or a sword thrust into his belly, like the agonizing wound that had taken Haseo’s life.

Tamako still waited for an explanation, and he forced himself to smile. “I suppose it brought back some bad memories.”

“Oh.” She smiled also, relieved. “Yes, it’s a wonder you don’t have nightmares. But you’re home now and must not let the past trouble you. We are all healthy and happy, and you finally got your promotion this year. All will be well. It will be a fine year for you, you’ll see.” Slowly a faint pink crept up her slender neck and into her smiling face. “And perhaps there will soon be another child, too.”

Though Akitada forced himself to show her a happy face, depression returned when he left for his office.

The fact was, the previous day had been a disaster. A small quarrel between the two young ministry clerks had led to an unpleasant confrontation between himself and the minister. Nakatoshi, an intense young man who wrote a very elegant hand and was therefore Soga’s clerk, had lost his temper with Akitada’s clerk, Sakae. Sakae’s characters resembled chicken scratches, though he insisted that his speed produced a cursive script much admired among the younger courtiers. The two were jealous of each other.

Yesterday Nakatoshi had followed Akitada to his office, a large room furnished with a low desk and many shelves holding document boxes and rolls of book scrolls. Akitada had moved up in the world since his promotion, much against the will of Minister Soga, to be sure, who had done his utmost to banish Akitada from his sight permanently. He had failed because Akitada had a few friends who interceded for him, and now Soga relieved his frustration by heaping as much work as possible on his detested senior secretary. The large desk had been covered with papers.

Akitada had stopped in astonishment. “What happened? We worked late last night and finished all the pending cases. There was nothing left. What is all this?”

“I am very sorry, sir, but the minister sent a messenger. You are to have these ready for him when he arrives.”

“Where is Sakae?”

“He stepped out for a breath of fresh air.” Nakatoshi bit his lip. “Could I help, sir?”

Akitada had considered the offer. Nakatoshi was by far the brightest young law clerk to pass across the ministry’s threshold for some time, and he was eager for work. Therein lay the problem. Soga had instantly chosen Nakatoshi as his personal amanuensis, and Soga hardly ever did any work. That meant that Nakatoshi spent most of his time sitting outside the minister’s room, waiting to write a letter from Soga to a friend, or to copy a memorial or proposal with which Soga hoped to curry some favor or justify his position. All the real legal work was done by Akitada, with some minimal assistance from Sakae.

“It’s not as if I ever do anything important,” Nakatoshi had grumbled, eyeing the documents almost hungrily. “Soon I will have forgotten all I ever learned. I would be so grateful, sir, if you would allow me to help you and Sakae sometimes.”

But it would not do. If nothing else, Soga knew Nakatoshi’s brush too well. And so Akitada had said, “I’m afraid that anything which passes His Excellency’s desk is out of the question, but if you just want to keep your hand in and have spare time, you might check on an old case in the archives,” and he had told him about Haseo, condemned to exile for a crime he had not committed.

“It sounds like a fascinating project,” Nakatoshi had cried. “I shall need the family name and the date and nature of his crime.”

Haseo had revealed his former name reluctantly, and only at the brink of death. For serious crimes, a man’s name was taken from him as part of his sentence. This had hampered Akitada’s own searches. “I believe the family name was Utsunomiya, but since it was confiscated along with his property, it won’t do you much good. Most references have been expunged.”

“Ah,” Nakatoshi had cried, “that must have been a very significant case, sir. What are the details of the crime?”

“I don’t know. He died before he could tell me anything else.”

“You don’t know? But how am I to . . . ?”

“You may not find anything. I didn’t. But I had too little time for a thorough search. Whatever happened, happened over five years ago. When I reached Sadoshima, Haseo had already been there several months, perhaps as much as a year. Longer he would not have survived.” Nakatoshi had stared at this and Akitada had explained. “Conditions for prisoners on the island were very bad then. I believe they are more humane now. There is a chance that some reference to the Utsunomiya name escaped the attention of the clerk who was charged with removing it. Also, it is highly unlikely from what I know of the man that his crime was political. That leaves a possible domestic offense. His punishment suggests that the crime was particularly vicious. Or, alternatively, he may have become involved in a private dispute with a high-ranking noble and killed him. The latter seems the most likely scenario to me. If you were to look at cases that happened five to seven years ago and would justify his particular sentence, you might come across something.”