“I gathered as much. Come, let’s walk on while you report. Did she reveal any private matters between her master and mistress?”

Genba’s color deepened. “Matters of the bedchamber, you mean?”

“No, of course not,” Akitada snapped, though he had meant that also. “I refer to their daily life together. Her position in the household. Do they live together like a normal couple?”

It was badly put and Genba said instantly, “I wouldn’t know how normal couples behave to each other, but according to the maid, this lady is disliked by everyone in the household, and her husband is often angry with her. The servants think she’s either been unfaithful or refuses to . . . give him a child. Anju says the lady drives her husband crazy with her bad moods. Sometimes she makes him so angry that he shouts and beats her.”

Genba paused when he saw his master’s bleak face.

“Go on.”

“That’s all. It must be a terrible life for both of them, sir. Why do you think they are still together? Why doesn’t he divorce her?”

Akitada said bitterly, “More to the point, since the man beats her, why doesn’t she leave him?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Akitada sighed. “I don’t know either, Genba. I was hoping you could explain it.”

He was in an impossible situation: She would or could not leave an abusive marriage, and he had promised not to interfere unless she asked for help. He could only hope for a future when she would change her mind and come to him.

They were approaching a private home, when its gate opened suddenly, and a harried servant appeared. “There you are, doctor,” he cried. “Come in quickly. The master’s having the bloody flux, and the third lady is covered with boils.”

Akitada said quickly, “I’m no doctor,” and pulled Genba away.

“This smallpox is a terrible disease,” offered Genba, looking back at the servant who stood wringing his hands and looking up and down the street.

“Yes. Tomorrow you will take the family to my sister’s country place.”

“People have been leaving in droves. I hope they have wagons and oxen left at the rental stable.”

Akitada had not thought of that. “Do the best you can, but be careful whom you deal with. If you see someone in ill health, leave quickly and go elsewhere. Tora’s not back yet, and I’m worried about him.” He stopped at the corner of Suzako Avenue. “I have another errand, but will be home soon.”

Akitada’s errand concerned Lady Yasugi’s parents and took him to the administrative offices of the capital, where he asked to see records of families with the surname Murata. Since he now knew that Hiroko had been raised in the capital, he planned to contact her parents for information about her sister Tomoe. He also hoped to get their support in a more personal matter: to free their other daughter from a hateful marriage and to take her as his wife.

But when he finally located the information, he faced a more disturbing problem than he could have imagined. Her father was the late Murata Senko, hereditary master of yin-yang and one of the scholars who devised the annual calendar that listed all the taboo days, directional prohibitions, auspicious days, and planetary conjunctions that governed most people’s lives. He had been a middle-rank official and had worked for the Bureau of Divination in the Greater Palace, so Kosehira had been quite right. Murata had sired only two children, a son and a daughter. The son had died in infancy. The daughter’s name was listed as Hiroko. Since by marriage she had passed out of the Murata family, the records did not bother to give her husband’s name. Her mother was also dead. The Murata family had ceased to exist.

Which raised two questions: Who was Tomoe? And why had Hiroko lied about her?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

TO THE DEATH

Tora and Kinjiro made their way to the Scarecrow’s house by such a circuitous route that the sun was getting low by the time they reached the quarter. They need not have troubled. Most streets were empty. When they got close to the house, they moved even more cautiously, but all looked quiet and deserted.

“There may be somebody inside,” Tora said. “Is there a way in from the back?”

Kinjiro looked Tora over. “You’re big,” he said, “but you may be able to do it.”

It involved climbing the rear fence at a corner, and then walking like a rope dancer along the narrow top of the wall for a distance of about twenty feet, before jumping to the roof of the large shed.

Kinjiro demonstrated with the ease of someone used to the route. Tora shuddered. He doubted the flimsy wall would support him, and anyone walking along the top and on the shed roof would be visible from several streets and houses.

“Kinjiro,” Tora hissed.

The boy paused, swaying back and forth, and grinned down at Tora. “Nothing to it.”

“It won’t hold me.”

“It’ll hold you if you walk quickly.”

“People will see us.”

Kinjiro cast a glance around. “It’s the hour of the evening rice. There’s nobody out. But if you stand there and wait, somebody may need to take a pee or something. Hurry up!”

With a sigh, Tora pulled himself up, tested the top of the wall, which was rounded and narrower than his foot, and found that it cracked and shifted alarmingly when he put his weight on it. He peered down into the service yard and at the back of the house. The area was deserted. The neighboring house also looked empty, but a thin spiral of smoke proved that someone was still living there and cooking the evening rice.

Kinjiro practically skipped along the wall and took a graceful leap to the shed, where he sat down to wait for Tora.

Tora began the balancing feat, arms outstretched, placing each foot carefully before the other. It did not seem too bad. Then he heard a door slam somewhere and Kinjiro waved to him to hurry. Tora slipped and almost fell. He caught himself, took two or three running steps, and just as he prepared to jump, the top of the wall gave under him and he fell. With a crack and a rumble that must have carried clear across the quarter, an entire section of the wall collapsed, and Tora descended in a deafening rattle of ripping and falling laths and chunks of dirt. He ended up in a pile of rubble, covered with dust and scrapes. He waited until the dust settled, his eyes on the back of the house, expecting Kata’s people to come pouring out in force to investigate the racket.

“Now you’ve done it,” Kinjiro sneered from the roof of the shed, rubbing in the obvious. But miraculously, all remained silent. Not even the cooking neighbor put out his or her head to stare at the large hole in the common wall between their properties. Tora struggled up, removed a rather large splinter from his right buttock, and limped toward the storehouse.

“Old man?” he called through the door, “Are you still in there?” There was no answer. “We’ll try to get you out. Are you all right?”

Kinjiro joined him. “Hey, Uncle Chikamura? It’s Kinjiro. Is that you in there?”

There was no response, and Tora said worriedly, “Maybe he’s dead. Or maybe he’s got the disease and can’t talk.”

They looked at each other. “You’re going to look, aren’t you?” Kinjiro asked.

“Yes, but you needn’t be here when I get the door open.”

“Needn’t be here? Why not?”

“In case he’s got the disease. Aren’t you afraid of catching it?”

“Who? Me?” Kinjiro spat. “I’m young and tough.”

Tora let it go. “In that case, let’s get those keys,” he said, his eyes scanning the pile of rubble, the gaping hole, and the neighbor’s yard beyond. How long till someone would come out to investigate?